


In your corner 'til the end

by Lady_in_Red



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Golf, Sexual Tension, Spring Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: Season 2: Spring Training. Ginny worries about making the roster, Mike is even surlier than usual, and flashbacks explain a lot.





	1. Golf Partners

**Author's Note:**

> Title paraphrased from "The Fighter" by Gym Class Heroes

**February 2017**

 

“Just take the penalty so we can move on,” Ginny begged.

“No, it’s here … somewhere,” Mike grumbled, poking his golf club into another bush along the edge of the rough.

The sun beat down on them, unseasonably warm even for Arizona in February. A bead of sweat ran down her spine, and she regretted letting Livan and Sonny go ahead with the golf cart. She could really use the bottle of grape soda she’d shoved into the cooler under the guys’ beers.

Instead Ginny was sitting on the fairway guarding their clubs and resisting the urge to toss golf balls at Mike’s ass as he bent over searching for his lost ball. “How are you so bad at this, Lawson? You hit balls with a stick professionally.”

Mike whipped around and pointed down the fairway. “I’m not bad. Livan distracted me.” Somewhere over the next hill, Livan and Sonny were probably still laughing about how easy it was to rile up their captain.

“Sure he did,” Ginny agreed with a snort. It wasn't fair, really. The guys were still sensitive about Mike’s near defection to the Cubs. Livan had waited until Mike was teeing off at the sixth hole before mentioning he'd seen several members of the Cubs in the pro shop.

Mike’s swing had completely missed the ball. On his next attempt, Livan had asked Ginny if she still had a crush on Anthony Rizzo. And Mike shanked the ball right into the bushes while Livan smirked and Ginny glared daggers at him.

“You know, this would go faster if you helped me, rookie,” Mike pointed out, a branch slapping his calf as he pushed deeper into the bushes. The back of his neck was bright red, from irritation or sunburn she wasn’t sure.

“Not a rookie, old man.” She glanced back toward the tee and reluctantly levered herself up off the turf. “Looks like the foursome behind us is getting restless.”

One of the players waiting for them to play through was making his way down the fairway toward them. There was something familiar about him, but Ginny couldn’t place him.

Mike straightened with a grimace and turned to follow her gaze. “Oh, that’s perfect,” he said sourly. “There’s your new poster boy.”

“What?” Ginny brushed grass off her shorts and squinted at the approaching man. Even with her sunglasses and ballcap the glare was ridiculous out here. He was tall and broad and his khaki shorts hugged thighs like tree trunks, but that wasn’t exactly unusual among MLB players. Neither was the swagger with which he walked. “I do _not_ have a poster of Rizzo. I’m not twelve.”

Mike chuckled like he didn’t believe her. “What is it about that guy? Didn’t you see him twerking on SNL?”

The only parts of that skit she hadn’t blocked from her memory were Dexter Fowler’s abs and Rizzo’s thighs. “I do not have a crush. So help me, Lawson, if you embarrass me—”

“You’ll what? I’ve got a hundred pounds on you, Baker.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” She didn’t like the way his eyes narrowed as he shuffled closer to her. Her teammates were all a little overprotective of her, but none more so than Mike. She shot him a warning glare.  

“Ginny Baker?” Rizzo called out as he approached. “I told the guys it was you and they didn’t believe me.”

“Hey, Rizzo,” Ginny answered with a quick nod. She’d barely spoken to him before, but no one had anything bad to say about the guy. That was rare. And up close his dimples had their appeal.

“How’s the arm?” he asked, glancing at the brace on her right arm.

“Ready to strike you out,” Mike said, and Ginny winced. Didn’t he remember Rizzo hitting a three-run homer off her fastball?  

Ginny would have elbowed Mike if he hadn’t positioned himself behind her right side. “It’s all good,” she said lightly. Ginny was sick of answering questions about her arm, sick of waiting to hear if she’d even make the roster. She’d made 16 starts last year and blown out her arm. How long were the Padres, or any other team, likely to put up with a starter who couldn’t make it into September?

Rizzo looked over her shoulder at Mike. Ginny could tell without looking that Mike was glowering at him. Lawson had been so touchy since they’d arrived in Peoria. The last thing he needed was a reminder of how close he’d come to finally winning a ring.

“Lawson, it’s been awhile.” Rizzo stretched out a hand and Mike shook it. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that trade fell through. We could have used your bat.”

Ginny glanced back at Mike in time to see a flash of pain in his eyes, but he covered it quickly. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, “but it wasn't my idea and I'm glad it fell through.”

“Say hi to Tommy for me, will you?” Ginny asked, trying to break the awkwardness of the moment. She really did need to catch up with Miller. The last time she saw him, she’d blown off talking to his wife and son.  

Rizzo seemed to realize he’d misstepped, and turned gratefully toward Ginny. She couldn’t help but grin back when he smiled on her. “He’s back at the tee with Kris and Jon. You should meet us at the 19th hole when you’re done.”

Ginny nodded. “Sounds good.” She risked a glance at Mike. “You ready to move on?”

Mike shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He still looked disgruntled, but Ginny had done all she could and honestly he needed to get over it. They had a game at Sloan Park in two weeks, and Al wasn’t going to let him sit it out.

“Hey, would you mind taking a selfie with me?” Rizzo asked hopefully. “Javy’s got such a thing for you. It’ll kill him that he wasn’t here.”

Ginny could see Mike stiffen out of the corner of her eye. Whatever. “Sure, no problem. Lawson will take it for us.”

Rizzo handed Mike his phone. He slung an arm around her waist and Ginny leaned against him, grinning without needing to force it as she often did. Now that she was in control of her own social media, with the occasional assist from Evelyn, she found she actually enjoyed it.

With the photo taken, they said their goodbyes and set off in search of Ginny’s ball, at least a hundred yards down the fairway. Mike seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to take his shot back there, and Ginny wasn’t about to remind him.

Once they were far enough away to avoid being overheard, Ginny decided to poke the bear. “Keep that up, Lawson, and you can alienate the entire National League before Opening Day.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Baker?” That indignant tone was infuriating, like he didn’t know exactly how unpleasant he was being.

Mike had mended fences with the team after her injury, but the mood in the clubhouse still wasn’t back to normal. Quiet and even more brooding than usual, Mike kept to himself or spent time closeted with Al discussing the rookies and the potential of various minor leaguers invited to try out for the roster. Blip had taken over keeping the guys in line, but the black cloud hanging over Mike was impossible to ignore. “Avoiding your teammates is one thing, but you were totally rude just now and that guy was nothing but polite. That’s a new low.”

Mike stopped in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

Ginny kept walking. “You heard me.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Something in his voice made her stop and look back at him. Mike looked exhausted, like the season was dragging to its end rather than just beginning. “Then talk to me, because not talking isn’t exactly working.”

Mike barked a laugh and shook his head. “Now you want to talk? Fine. I know that guy. He was a Padre back in 2011, and all the WAGs fawned over him, including my wife. So no, Baker, I don’t much like watching you fall for him, too.”

“I am not falling for him. Livan was just trying to wind you up. He loves to do that, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “No, _mami_ , I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then can I have my captain back? I’m actually kind of jonesing for one of his ridiculous speeches, and the guys miss hanging out with you.” It was easy to fall back into the teasing, the banter. Much easier than admitting how much his sudden disappearing act had hurt her. Mike had been there every step of the way through her rehab, taking her side when she refused to move back to North Carolina with her mother. Even after he moved back to LA with Rachel, Mike was still there for her, until the beginning of January, when he suddenly stopped visiting. After he blew off a handful of calls and texts, Ginny had stopped trying.  

Mike gave her a long, assessing look that made Ginny squirm. “Oscar isn’t sending you back to El Paso.” He scraped a hand over his beard, trimmed much shorter than he'd worn it last season. “Medical’s going to clear you, and the media will be all over your comeback instead of the revolving door in the front office. The team needs you.”

His certainty soothed a small, insistent part of her that believed she’d never make it back, that she’d be washed up without a backup plan at 24. It wasn’t the words so much as the look in his eyes, steady and warm. She wasn’t keen on being picked for PR reasons, but she wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity. “The team, huh? So you won’t mind answering questions about me again?”

Mike shrugged and readjusted the golf bag slung over his shoulder. “Better than questions about when I plan to retire.”

Ginny wondered if that was the reason behind his mood, but she didn’t want to be yet another person asking. She pulled her phone back out and started talking before she could overthink this. “Hey, take a picture with me. I don’t want it to look like I was hanging with the Cubs today, but Livan is a total camera hog and Sonny always gives me bunny ears.”

Mike sighed heavily, but she saw the little crinkles around his eyes, the smile his beard couldn’t hide. He sidled up close while she held up the phone, his arm wrapped loosely around her waist.

For a second, Ginny’s mind scrambled, registering only the feel of his hand on the curve of her hip and his eyes watching her, shadowed by his cap. It felt nothing at all like when Rizzo had touched her. She cleared her throat, willed her mind away from a moment best left in the past, and rushed through taking the photo and posting it to Instagram. They both looked tense, with awkward little smiles that Ginny already knew Evelyn would over-analyze.  

She bumped his shoulder. “Come out with us tonight. You can’t hide in your man cave with Al all season.”

Mike raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with scorn. “Man cave?”

Ginny shoved her phone in her pocket and settled the golf bag on her left shoulder. “Come on, I need a wingman.”

“You want me to help you pick up guys?” Mike asked incredulously, trailing behind her as she started down the fairway. The entire team was going to a bar to help Stubbs forget his latest breakup. Mike had made an excuse about studying their new pitchers to avoid it. She couldn’t really blame him. Stubbs wanted to go line dancing.

“Ew, no. I need you to scare off whoever Sonny tries to throw my way. He thinks I need to ‘relax.’” She rolled her eyes along with the air quotes. Ginny had been on a handful of dates since giving Noah’s whirlwind vacation scheme a hard pass, but she was tired of the drama. Between the paparazzi following her and guys assuming they knew her from her media coverage, it all felt manufactured, another extension of Ginny Baker™.

“You, relax?” Mike laughed, and this time it sounded natural. “You can’t even let Blip’s kids beat you at a video game.”

Ginny shrugged. He was right, and it was something her therapist had been harping on. Even now, strolling down the fairway with Mike, the sun warm on her back, she could hear her father’s voice in the back of her mind, chiding her for taking the day off. “Then show me how it’s done. I mean, unless you have other plans.”

“Other plans?”

“I thought Rachel might be in town.” Ginny regretted bringing it up when she saw Mike’s face turn to stone.

“If she is, it’s not because of me,” he said cryptically. “She’s not my biggest fan right now.”

“Why not?” Ginny could see the golf cart up ahead, on the far side of the hole. She’d completely forgotten about her ball, and Livan was so competitive he’d probably make them both take the maximum penalty.

“I moved out two weeks ago. I left her.”

 


	2. Rookie and Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _flashback sound effect_   
> 

**September 3, 2016**

 

No surgery.

The doctors kept talking, the team doc and San Diego’s best elbow specialist (Mike knew better than most how many orthopedic specialties there were) squinting and pointing at Ginny’s CT scan. Mike was already five steps ahead, trying to figure out how to stop this from happening to his pitcher again.

Oscar asked a lot of questions, but each one betrayed how much he needed to bring good news to the owners so his head wouldn't be on the block beside Al and Charlie. Mike’s head should be there too, but after the failed trade he doubted they’d make a move against him.

Once the doctors started talking about writing up Ginny’s case for a medical journal, Mike excused himself to throw out the jet fuel that passed for coffee in this hospital. He didn't come back, wandering down to the private ward where Ginny was hidden from the curious eyes of press and fans.

One perk of fame—no one stopped him. A hospital security guard took one look at Mike, swiped his badge over a sensor and held open the door. Mike expected to find Amelia pacing the hall waging war on her phone and growling orders at Elliot, but the two people in the hall weren’t Ginny’s agent team.

A big man in a suit stood sentinel outside a door halfway down the hall. Beside him was a cart laden with flowers, stuffed animals, and balloons, and a tired-looking woman in scrubs covered with multi-colored hearts.

“What does she want me to do with them, then?” the woman asked with a huff.

“Send them to pediatrics or oncology,” the guard answered patiently.

The woman shook her head emphatically. “No flowers in oncology. Makes the chemo patients nauseous.”

“Then cardiology or neurology. Whatever.” Mike recognized him now. He was part of the security team at the ballpark.

The woman suddenly noticed Mike approaching, gave him an almost girlish smile. He must look a hell of a lot better than he felt. He’d tossed and turned all night.

“Mr. Lawson,” the guard greeted him.

Mike nodded in reply, wishing he remembered this guy’s name but he doubted they’d ever been introduced.

The gift shop woman was still standing there, listening to them. Mike offered her his most charming smile. “Miss Baker would really appreciate it if you could make those deliveries. Thanks.”

“Oh, of course.” The woman reluctantly turned and slowly pushed the cart down the hall. One of the wheels rattled, making the cheap glass vases knock together as the cart moved.

“How is she?” Mike asked quietly.

The guard shrugged. “Miss Baker is not happy with Mr. Evers’ fastball today.”

Mike smiled. That sounded like the Baker he knew, not the crying mess she’d turned into the minute she was out of sight of the cameras yesterday. The team had been visibly shaken, and Butch had allowed two hits in the ninth, though they still won. “Mind if I go in?”

The guard shook his head and Mike slipped into the room. It was empty except for Ginny, sitting up in bed watching the TV mounted in the corner of the room. For just a moment, he let himself see the woman he’d held so briefly three nights ago, and then he pushed that away.

Baker was wearing a pale blue hospital gown, her right arm immobilized in a black sling and the remote clutched in her left hand. Her hair was loosely tied back, her tired eyes focused on the game the same way she watched from the dugout. “Just leave the tray. I’m not hungry,” she said without looking at him.

Duarte was at bat. As usual, he swung at the first pitch, a sinker well outside the strike zone. Ginny swore, and the camera switched to a view of the dugout. A square of white tape with “43” written on it was fixed to the crown of every ballcap. Blip’s idea, Mike was sure, and glancing at Ginny he saw the tell-tale shine in her eyes. All she’d ever wanted was to be one of the guys, and here was the proof that she was.

“Ginny Baker not hungry? What’d they do to you in here, rookie?” Mike asked, eager to pull her attention away from both Duarte’s batting and their teammates’ show of solidarity.

Ginny startled, dropping the remote. “Lawson? Why aren’t you playing?” That last question was an accusation, a condemnation of Livan’s catching today. She gestured at the television, her right hand twitching as she instinctively tried to use her dominant hand.

Now that she was looking at him, Mike could see the pain in her eyes and the tight clench of her jaw. Refusing narcotics, most likely. Not surprising. Always in control, this girl—this woman. Mike had never even seen Ginny drunk. She was too smart to let her guard down in any of the bars they visited after games, never accepted drinks from strangers and had only begun accepting opened beers from her teammates a month ago.

Mike dragged a chair over from the corner and dropped into it. The back dug into his shoulder blades and the seat bit sharply into his thighs. Apparently the hospital didn’t want to encourage visitors to stay long. A crack and the roar of the crowd made him look up. Livan was on base, grinning with smug satisfaction.

“I came to the meeting with Oscar and the doctors. Skip couldn’t risk leaving Buck in charge. Last time we got into a brawl.” More to the point, Blip and Mike couldn’t brawl in the dugout again if Mike wasn’t there. Plus Al thought that Ginny would prefer to see her catcher instead of her manager. He didn’t seem to care about their argument on the mound yesterday; he cared that at the end of it Ginny had her head on straight again.

She snorted at that. “Of course, why include me in the meeting? It’s only _my_ arm.”

Mike shifted in a futile effort to get more comfortable. “The doc said he already talked to you.”

“He did,” she said, “if you count calling me ‘young lady’ and patting my shoulder while he told me I wouldn’t need surgery. Beyond that he said I needed to talk to the Padres’ medical staff.”

“They used to call me ‘son,’ and they'd talk to Al and the old GM like I wasn't in the room.” That was his first knee injury, the season he met Rachel. Mike leaned forward, so at least his back stopped protesting. “You have a lot of rehab ahead. But you knew that. I don’t know what Amelia has planned for the off-season, but—”

“Amelia’s gone.” Something brittle in her tone made it clear that her agent wasn’t coming back.

“Because you’re hurt?” Any lingering fondness he’d had for Amelia vanished in a heartbeat. “Fuck her. Every sports agent in the country will want to sign you.” Assuming Ginny made it back. And Mike refused to entertain any doubts about that.

“No, no, I fired her. Sort of? We had a fight. She didn’t even tell Elliot she was leaving.” Ginny pushed a loose curl back with her left hand. She looked so lost for a moment, then she took a quick breath and composed herself.

Mike almost said he was sorry, but the cool defiance in her eyes stopped him. This was exactly why sleeping with Amelia had been such a bad idea. That moment when Ginny wondered where his loyalties lay. With her. No question.  

“Okay, then if you play your cards right, you might get a whole week off before you start rehab. And as soon as the season ends, your ass is mine, Baker.”

From the look on her face, the joke didn’t quite land. The things they weren’t talking about were right there again, just under the surface, on the tip of his tongue, and he couldn’t even joke about helping with her rehab without sticking his foot in his mouth. Mike tried again. “When are they letting you out of here?”

“Whenever I’m ready.” Ginny picked absently at the blanket covering her legs. “Ev’s picking me up in a few hours. She has to pick up the boys from school and get me some clothes from the hotel first.”

“Can’t your brother do that?” Mike hadn’t actually met Will Baker, but Blip wasn’t happy that he’d roped Evelyn into investing in a sports bar. Blip, like Mike, had nothing growing up, and hoarded his earnings like a dragon hoarded gold.

Ginny shook her head. “Nope. He’s gone, too. He stole from me.” She sounded angry and embarrassed at the same time.

Mike recognized that combination far too well. “Have I ever told you about my mom?”

She shook her head, clearly surprised that he’d brought up his family.

He’d always been vague about his parents in interviews. No one needed to know Mike sent his mother a stipend every month to keep her out of trouble and out of the press, or that his father lived half an hour north of San Diego and had never tried to contact his son. “Remind me, when you’re not doped up on painkillers, and I’ll tell you about her.”

Ginny nodded and turned back to the game. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Ginny glanced at it and declined the call.

Mike stared at her expectantly until she looked at him. After the awkwardness of All-Star Weekend, he understood how difficult Ginny’s relationship with her mother was, but she needed someone. If her mother was willing to step up, Ginny could use the support.

Ginny sighed. “Noah.”

The gangly nerd he’d shared an elevator with at the Omni. The guy on Sonny’s tablet, kissing his rookie. The guy who clearly spent the night in Ginny’s room. In Ginny’s bed. Mike had no right to care, not when he’d been in Rachel’s bed. That didn’t mean he wanted to know about it. “He really offered to take you around the world?”

“Ridiculous, right? It was our second date. I just—I just can’t deal with that right now.”

So much for Noah’s chances with Ginny. A better man would feel bad about that, if only for Ginny’s sake.

They watched another inning before she spoke again. “So is this it?”

Mike was too busy typing out a list of Duarte’s mistakes in his phone to process the question. “What?”

“You just came to say hi? No lecture, no speech?”

Mike locked his phone and turned to face her. “I thought you gave the speeches.”

“On the mound,” Ginny huffed. “And that was different. You really have nothing to say?” She actually sounded disappointed.

Mike couldn’t help but smile. This woman just killed him sometimes. Yesterday she almost made Padres and MLB history, gave him an epic tongue-lashing on the mound in front of 40,000 people, and went to sleep last night here in a cold hospital room not knowing if her career was over. “I don’t know, Baker. You want the lecture or the big movie speech?”

“Lecture?” She had the nerve to look surprised. They always did. The only difference was that this rookie got under his skin, even more than the arrogant little shit currently gunning for his job.

“Yes, rook, the lecture. The one where I remind you that you should never chase a bunt. That’s my job. You made the play for yourself, not the team.” Baker didn’t need a long, involved story, just the lesson, swift and to the point.

She thought about it a moment, eyes darting over to the TV. Mike followed her gaze. Salvi hit a line drive up the middle, and they both sighed in relief. “Alright, fine, hit me. I want the speech too.”

A knot inside him unraveled. Of course he had a speech prepared. He’d thought of nothing else on the drive over from the ballpark. Mike had kicked himself a few hundred times for the way he’d spoken to her the last few days, thought of at least five different ways he could have fixed everything. And he’d almost gotten in his car last night, driven down here from La Jolla to see her. But he’d stopped because he thought she had her brother and Amelia and probably Evelyn and Blip with her. The way things were with them right now, Mike didn’t really want an audience when he saw her.

“If this was a movie, I’d tell you that you can do this, and your captain will be with you every step of the way. Then the music swells and there’s a training montage. It’s an epic montage, Baker. The camera loves this ass. And at the end, there’s you on the mound, with me behind the plate.” He raised an eyebrow while she tried not to laugh.

“Can’t do it, rookie. It’s going to be work. Hard damn work. You need to rehab your arm, and we have to work on using your screwball less.” She started to speak and Mike cut her off. “Yes, I know, you have a cutter. Which you shouldn’t have been working on during the season. Don’t make me check the security footage at Petco. Would I find you working after hours, throwing hundreds of pitches no one knew to add to your counts?”

Ginny bit her lip and looked away. “Yes, but—”

“Save it. There’s plenty of blame to go around, and someone’s going to pay. But it’s not going to be you.” Mike levered himself up out of the uncomfortable chair, suddenly knowing exactly what she needed right now. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

Mike went to the door and looked back at her. “To my car to grab a sweatshirt, and then to the nurses’ station to sweet-talk someone out of a pair of scrub pants and some shoes so I can take you home now.”

The smile that lit Ginny’s face was worth ducking the paparazzi to get into the hospital, worth giving up a start to Livan.

In the hall, Mike thanked the guard, asked if he knew the quickest way back to the parking garage. He ignored the looks and the whispers when he passed people in the halls, too intent on his task. He could do this. He didn’t touch her, didn’t call her ‘Ginny,’ didn’t say anything he couldn’t walk back. He messed up with her once. He wouldn’t do it again.


	3. Wingman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Spring Training

**February 2017**

 

Line dancing was harder than it looked. She’d invited Tommy to join them, and he took great delight in showing off his skills and mocking hers. It didn’t matter. After a couple of beers Ginny stopped caring how stupid she looked and just went along for the ride. All she had to do find the beat, learn a few steps, and feel the music. She’d missed this, just being one of the guys, letting go without having to worry for a while.

When a slow song allowed her a few minutes to catch her breath, Ginny ended up dancing with Livan. Her teammates never left her alone on the dancefloor long enough for fans or groupies to intrude, and the locals were mostly unimpressed with them anyway, used to being overrun with ball players and fans every spring.

Mike wasn’t dancing, but he was watching her. Not all the time. Not every time she looked. It was like having a conspicuous, grouchy bodyguard, not exactly what she’d had in mind when she badgered him into coming. Mike sat in the corner with Butch, talking and drinking beer with whiskey chasers. But she could feel the weight of his stare when Livan put his arm around her. Once, when Stubbs joined in with Tommy singing along with Kenny Chesney, she started laughing so hard she rested her forehead against Livan’s shoulder. When she looked up, Mike was at the bar, ordering another drink, his back to her.

If she counted last season’s trade, Butch was on his third stint with the Padres. He’d done two years with them as a starter years ago, when Mike was new to the team, and then again the past few years as a closer. He was already 40, milking the last years of his career unapologetically banking money for his kids’ college funds. Mike might confide in him, she hoped, since Blip was back at their rented condo on a Facetime date with his wife.

After Tommy cleared the floor with his enthusiastic but toneless display, the team took a break, clustering around Tommy to hear about the Series, that infamous rain delay, smelling like champagne for days and riding in an open top bus with his wife and son through streets packed with millions of fans. Ginny got chills just listening to him.

Tommy had just moved on to Joe Maddon’s controversial overuse of his closer when Ginny realized that Butch had joined them. Mike was sitting alone at his table, peeling the label off a beer bottle. Last year he would have had women buzzing around him, but his expression tonight wasn’t exactly inviting. If a thundercloud appeared over his head, Ginny wouldn’t be surprised.

She wasn't deterred by that face at all, so she slipped out of her seat and went to the bar. She was already buzzed and shouldn't have another beer. Mike probably shouldn't either, but she ordered two anyway and joined him at his table.

“How you doing, old man?” She bumped his shoulder with hers as she set his beer in front of him.

Mike wrapped long, capable fingers around the neck of the bottle and brought it to his lips. “Good.” He watched his team eagerly soaking in Tommy’s stories. At least Miller wasn’t wearing the ring tonight.

“Good, huh?” Ginny took a long pull of her own beer, gulping the cold, bitter ale faster than she probably should. “Thought you were going to show me a good time, not sit in the corner brooding.”

Mike turned toward her, just a little, just enough to see his dark eyes flash, and the sarcastic twist of his mouth. “I’m living the dream, Baker. Single, well-off, retiring before I’m 40, with this face?”

“That’s why you were over here drinking alone?”

Mike didn't answer, retreating into his beer.

She tucked an errant curl behind her ear and shifted in her seat. She should leave this alone. Mike would start snapping at her if she pushed, but she couldn’t watch him suffer without at least offering her support. “Whatever happened, you know I'm on Team Mike, 100 percent. Okay, I’m literally on your team, but you know what I mean.”

That finally drew his eyes up to meet hers, his gaze serious though a smirk played at his lips. His voice was mocking. “Teammates. Got it, Baker.”

The only thing that kept Ginny in her seat was the certainty that he was trying to piss her off, push her away. It was working—no one pushed her buttons quite like Mike did. “It’s not a dirty word, old man. I’ve never had this before.” She waved at the Padres talking and laughing together.

A burst of laughter drew her eyes across the room, where a couple of fans were getting selfies with Sonny and Pete. Nearby a redhead in a tight tank top was leaning in close to Stubbs and petting his arm. Ginny might approve if he didn’t have a habit of becoming attached to his ladies of the evening.

Selfie taken, one of the fans said something to Sonny, who shrugged and pointed toward Ginny and Mike. “Shit,” she muttered as the fan straightened and turned her way. “Incoming.”

The approaching guy was tall and lean and not unattractive, just totally forgettable. Her teammates were watching him like a car wreck in progress, and he kept glancing nervously back at them.

Mike followed her gaze. “Just take the picture, rookie.”

“Wingman, remember?” It was never just a picture, not for Ginny, even when Sonny wasn’t baiting them. No, Chris or Matt or Josh or whatever this guy’s name was would want to buy her a drink, then stay and talk while she drank it. Her teammates could get away with one-night stands. The last thing Ginny BakerTM needed was to show up naked on Snapchat, which meant turning down every groupie and fan as politely as she could.

When the guy reached their table, he met her eyes briefly, then his gaze dropped to her chest. And stayed there. She wore a deep v-neck top, the shimmery gold fabric contrasting with her skin. Evelyn always complimented her when she wore it.

“Hey, I saw you out on the dance floor earlier and I was hoping you’d dance with me.” Now he was actually talking to her breasts.

Yes, this was a damn good bra, much more flattering than the sports bras Ginny wore under her uniform, but still, she had a face. And if he bothered looking at that face he might notice she couldn’t be less interested. “Sorry—”

“Is that really your best line?” Ginny turned sharply at the sound of Mike’s incredulous voice. He was smiling, but not a good smile. That was a shark’s smile, the kind that would clear the clubhouse and leave the captain alone with whoever had displeased him that day.

At least the guy turned his attention to Mike instead of continuing to eye-fuck her tits. “Look at her. No, scratch that, you with your tight T-shirt and your dyed blonde hair—yes, everyone can tell, and no, it doesn’t look good—don’t get to look at a woman like her. Drake offered to send his jet for her, a billionaire offered to take her around the world. You? You’re going to turn around and walk away. Right now.” Mike made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go.”

The guy visibly paled, swallowed hard, and backed off a few steps. She knew Mike’s bark was far worse than his bite, but right now he looked like a pissed-off grizzly. And he was still sitting down. This guy was in trouble if Mike bothered to stand. He had several inches and at least forty pounds on the guy.

Behind him, their teammates started laughing. Money changed hands. Oh great, they were betting on her sex life again. The guy’s face turned red and he stalked back to his friends.

Ginny sighed and downed the rest of her beer, thirsty and tired and desperate to relax somewhere without cameras tracking her every move. “I’m gonna head out. Come share an Uber.” She didn’t bother making it a question. Mike’s rental was in the same building as the one Ginny and Blip were sharing and, unlike her, Mike had to play tomorrow.

Mike let the guys know they were leaving while she ordered the car. Their teammates were still drinking and talking, and Ginny knew from experience that they could close down a bar and still make practice in the morning.

She waited by the door, trying to ignore the guy Mike had humiliated, sitting with his friends huddled over their phones. “Five bucks says he’s already on Twitter calling me a bitch,” she muttered as Mike reached her.

Mike settled a hand on her lower back as he followed her out of the overheated bar and into the cool night. “Nah, I was the asshole. If anything his buddies are posting pictures of you wrapped around Livan.”

“I wasn’t—forget it.” She had not been wrapped around Livan. It didn’t sound like a joke, either. Were he and Livan still marking their territory with her? Ginny wished they’d fight over Sonny and Pete, and leave her out of it. Sonny wouldn’t find the warm pressure of Mike’s hand so damn distracting, or miss it when it was gone.

The street was quiet, peaceful, no cars passing and the only other people visible were some kids on skateboards in the parking lot of the gas station down the block. Ginny’s head was buzzing, worries she could dismiss sober suddenly fighting for her attention. Buck and Al would decide in the morning whether she would start Spring Training in the pitching rotation or competing for her spot with the dozen right-handed pitchers they’d invited to try out. Ginny resisted the urge to ask Mike for reassurance again. He wasn’t a crutch she could lean on, especially with her former teammates in the mix in Peoria. She’d already heard some not especially quiet comments about Ginny’s history with catchers.

She glanced at her phone. “Five minutes. It’s a black Lincoln.”

Mike hummed in acknowledgement, his hands jammed in his pockets. He looked good. Miserable, but good. He’d lost a few pounds in the off-season, his beard was shorter and less bushy (she’d resisted sending him a text marveling over clean-shaven off-season Jake Arrieta), but Mike’s jeans, ancient black leather jacket, and worn-soft flannel shirt were all familiar. Too familiar, and he was going to catch her checking him out if she didn’t find something else to look at. The silence between them felt alive, something hot and dark that stirred and woke at inconvenient moments. Like standing together outside a bar. Again.

Heat flooded her cheeks, an unwilling response to the potent mix of attraction and embarrassment she associated strongly with Mike. At least this time it didn’t catch her off guard, and she knew nothing would happen. He’d made that humiliatingly clear back in August. If her injury had been good for anything, it had given them both something to focus on other than Mike pretending, poorly, that she hadn’t nearly kissed him.

Ginny checked her phone. Their car was three minutes out. She missed when their silences weren’t so awkward.

“How are you doing, Baker? And I don’t want to hear about your cutter. You. How are _you_ doing?” That wasn’t quite his captain voice, too much affection and not enough arrogance. Her friend asking.

She risked a glance at him and shrugged. “Is this supposed to be fun? I feel like it’s supposed to be fun, but it's just weird. Sharing a stadium with the Mariners, so many pitchers in the bullpen. I get lost going to the weight room, I keep forgetting where my stupid closet is. I should just ask for a screen like at the other parks.”

Mike cracked a smile, an honest to God smile like she hadn’t seen all week. “Yeah, Baker, this is fun. Smaller ballparks, crossing the city to play the Reds instead of flying all night. This is a paid vacation compared to the season.”

A paid vacation where her former teammates could easily out her relationship with Trevor, a detail she’d been grateful to keep to herself so far. If any of her old teammates decided to talk, she’d never hear the end of it from the press.

Their car pulled up to the curb, distracting Mike from whatever else he might have asked, and they rode back in a silence Ginny could almost make herself believe was comfortable.

 

 


	4. Post-Game Analysis

**October 2016**

 

Mike was just starting his cool down when Al walked into the Petco gym. The skipper was as dressed up as he ever got at the ballpark, wearing pleated slacks and a Padres polo shirt. He had a meeting with the front office today. Al had been on thin ice with the ownership since June, but he had weathered that just fine until he started ignoring Oscar’s directions. First allowing Mike to bat the day the trade fell apart (like he had any choice when Baker got the crowd chanting Mike’s name), and then hanging up when Oscar demanded he pull Baker from a potential no-hitter.

Mike and Al had talked about that last decision a lot. There was usually alcohol involved, and plenty of self-loathing to go around.

Mike pulled out his earbuds, trading the 90s songs of his high school years for the quiet of the empty gym. The local guys showed up a couple times a week, but rarely this early in the day.

“How’s our girl?” Al asked him.

“Frustrated,” Mike huffed out, and reduced the treadmill speed to a brisk walk. “She just wants to start throwing. I’m running out of tricks to distract her.”

Al sighed. “I figured. Thanks for getting her out of that hotel, by the way. Staring at the field every time she looked out the window wasn’t helping.”

Convincing Ginny to move out of the Omni had been one of Mike’s better ideas. Not only was she shocked how expensive her suite was once the bills started coming to her instead of Amelia, but finding and furnishing a new condo had distracted her for a couple of weeks. Ginny probably would have taken the first place she looked at, if only to get her mother off her back. Luckily Evelyn had stepped in to help Ginny house hunt. Janet Baker would probably never speak to Mike again, but he didn’t care. Going back to North Carolina was the wrong call; her mother resented baseball and wouldn’t have given Ginny the support she needed to rehab properly.

“Baker can still see the field. Now she can just see the rest of the world too.” Mike just wished she’d look at it instead of obsessing over the one place she couldn’t be—on the mound. Her new condo was on the 9th floor of a secure high-rise between Petco and Balboa Park. Floor to ceiling windows, a guest room, and an in-building gym she was contractually bound to avoid for now. Evelyn assured him it was perfect.

“If only it were that easy,” Al replied, tapping the top of the treadmill with one hand. Mike still thought of him as the middle-aged man he’d been when he took over the club, but Al was pushing 70. His knuckles were swollen, his walk a fraction slower. Al was barely hanging onto his job, yet here he was, checking on his players instead of worrying about himself.

“Ginny’s North Carolina driver’s license expires next month. Blip’s giving her a crash course in California driving. That’ll keep her busy for a week or two. Maybe I’ll take her to one of my dealerships after the playoffs. After that, I’m out of ideas,” Mike admitted. “I’ve gotta get up to LA to catch my flight in a couple hours, but Duarte’s coming in and the guys are watching the games at Salvi’s, so she’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”

Al gave him a speculative look. “I heard you’ve been spending time in LA lately.”

Mike stopped the treadmill. “Yeah, I have.” Al was there when they met, at a gala for a cancer research charity. Rachel had met David the same way. The irony wasn’t lost on Mike.

“That a good idea?” Al asked. That was the closest he’d ever come to speaking against her. Mike was aware that his wife and his manager didn’t get along, and he’d done his best to keep them apart.

“Skip, you don’t have to worry about me.” It would work this time. He’d make it work.

Al patted Mike’s arm. “The day I don’t worry about my players is the day they bury me.” He glanced down and smiled. “And even then I’ll be thinking, should Mike really be holding up this casket with those knees?”

That was a joke, Mike should be laughing, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He just smiled back at his manager, and hoped like hell the man would still be here when he got back from Chicago.

Thanks to Frank Thomas’ sudden bout of the flu, Mike was flying out tonight to do post-game analysis for the three Wrigley Field games of the NLDS. He already knew the Giants like the back of his hand, so the lack of prep time was no big deal. He’d go over his notes from the season on the plane and the producers would have stats for him from the first two games.

“Is it time for the early bird special or did Lawson’s knees finally give out? I could swear he still has a few more miles to run.” Both men looked up to find Ginny leaning against the doorjamb, the sturdy brace on her right arm the only indication she was less than 100 percent game ready. Mike wondered briefly if she had trouble wrestling those skin-tight leggings on with her restricted range of motion, but shook off the thought. Baker’s legs were definitely off-limits.

Mike was about to snap back at her but Al butted in, “Lawson and I had things to talk about. Don’t worry, I’ll give him back to you in one piece.”

Her head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed. “You headed upstairs, skip?”

“Yeah. I’ll swing by later, you can complain about rehab all you want,” he promised.

Ginny bit her lip and then said, “I’ll talk to them, if you want.”

Al smiled but shook his head. “How’d that work out for you with Sanders?”

Mike perked up at that. Ginny had spoken to the front office about Blip? That wasn’t something players did. Ever. Of course, she wouldn’t have known that, and Amelia might not have known to stop her either.

She shrugged. “He didn’t get traded, did he?”

Al crossed the room and clapped her on her good shoulder. “I appreciate it, Baker, but I’m the one who hung up on Oscar. Twice.”

Her jaw clenched stubbornly. She must have been a real treat as a kid, the kind who would rather be dragged by the arm out of a store than do what she was told. “I’ll tell them I refused to leave the game.”

Al laughed. “Like I couldn’t have forced you? Baker, come on.”

Mike wasn’t sure how she managed it, but her expression got even more stubborn. “Please,” she scoffed. “What were you going to do? You’d never lay hands on me, and Lawson was on my side.”

Al sighed. “Sanders would have done something if I asked.”

Ginny patted his arm. “Skip, Ev would have killed Blip if he so much as raised his voice to me. Trust me. You do not want to piss that woman off. She has nails, and she fights dirty.”

Mike snickered at that. He’d been on Evelyn Sanders’ bad side enough to know Ginny wasn’t exaggerating. Hell, Evelyn had stopped coming to their games the last month of the season, and that was completely unlike her. Mike had gotten bits and pieces of the story from Blip one night after a bad loss, but the gist was that they were going through a rough patch and it had totally thrown Blip for a loop. Mike understood what that was like all too well.

Al just smiled at Ginny again and squeezed her shoulder before he pushed past her out of the gym. He looked like a man going to his execution, and Mike wished he didn’t have to leave town right in the middle of this.

Ginny tipped her chin up at Mike, watching him stand idle on the treadmill. His calves were sore, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. And she clearly thought he was slacking off. “I’m doing weights. Wanna come, or do you have to go make yourself pretty for A-Rod?”

Goddamn, that little smirk was going to kill him. Just a hint of a dimple, her eyebrow raised ever so slightly. She knew there’d been bad blood between him and Alex Rodriguez since the All-Star Game a few years back when Rodriguez deliberately took out Mike’s ankle sliding into home. Unfortunately A-Rod was among the analysts Mike would be working with in Chicago.

“That reminds me. Livan’s coming in tomorrow. Work your voodoo on him while I'm gone.” So far he didn’t think Baker had noticed how the guys took turns keeping an eye on her training, but he didn’t exactly trust Livan to keep his mouth shut. Mike figured there was a 50-50 chance Livan would give them up, and Ginny would leave irate messages on Mike’s phone. When Ginny got going, three minutes wouldn’t be long enough for one of her rants.

“My voodoo?” She already sounded annoyed.

Mike gestured at her. “You know, you bat your eyelashes, call him _Papi_ , and he behaves for a little while.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Wow. You think I flirt to make him behave? Really?”

Mike put his hands up in surrender and stepped off the treadmill. “Hey, I’d do it if I could. You’re the only one he listens to. Ask Buck.”

Ginny leveled a glare at him. “Whatever. Try not to kill A-Rod on camera. The guys have bets going and I have money on you keeping your cool.”

She turned and left before Mike could ask who’d bet against him.

 

* * *

 

Packing had been simple enough, except that Mike’s favorite suit was at Rachel’s, along with the tie Al had given him last year, Padres blue with a pattern of tiny gold SD logos, and a change of clothes and workout gear.

Rachel sat on the bed watching him while he moved things around in his garment bag to make room for that suit and a pair of dress shoes.

His phone vibrated on the bed and Mike glanced at the incoming text.

 **Ginny Baker:** very funny

Mike knew exactly what she was talking about, but he wasn’t about to admit it yet. He picked up the phone and typed a response designed to annoy her.

 **Mike:** ????

“You should take that navy and yellow stripe tie.” Rachel got up and started rummaging through his tiny sliver of the closet. She’d given him that tie, which he didn’t actually like. It looked like something a prep school kid would wear. He might have even left it here when he moved out.

The phone vibrated again.

 **Ginny Baker:** don’t play innocent

A photo popped up on the message screen. Her cubby, with a six-foot cardboard Mike Lawson in front of it. He knew there was another one behind her door, because he put them there. Well, he paid a guy $50 to do it while she was watching old game tapes this afternoon.

 **Mike:** think of it as an upgrade from your poster

Mike had teased Ginny about it yesterday in the weight room. Damn, he needed to pack more  workout gear. The trainers wanted him to drop another five pounds and then reassess his skills. Orthopedists had been hounding Mike for years to lose weight, but striking a balance between batting power, balance, and lightening the load on his knees wasn’t that simple.

He had a duffel in the closet with new clothes UnderArmour had sent. His deal wasn’t nearly as lucrative as Ginny’s with Nike, he didn’t have a fancy logo or a commercial, but he did a few print ads a year in exchange for decent money and all the gear he could wear.

“Mike?”

“What?” Mike glanced up, surprised to find Rachel standing right in front him holding two ties.

Her head tilted, her lips pursed in irritation. Mike was very familiar with this expression. “Were you listening?”

The phone vibrated again, and Rachel’s eyes went unerringly to the screen so helpfully displaying Ginny’s latest message.

 **Ginny Baker:** skip is OK for now  
**Ginny Baker:** call when you get a chance

Mike swept up the phone and jammed it in his pocket, grateful for her update on Al. He would call Al when he got to the airport, find out if he’d sugarcoated the situation so the rookie wouldn’t worry.

“You spend a lot of time with her.” Rachel dropped the ties on the bed, folded her arms across her chest. It was a statement, but a leading one. Mike had seen her use this gambit in interviews.

What was he supposed to say to that? _Remember how you told me to figure out what I wanted? I wanted her, how stupid was that?_ Even Mike wasn’t dumb enough to tell her that. “I’m working with Duarte too. And getting in more fielding practice.” Helping Livan was against his own interests, but one look from Al was really all it had taken to remind Mike to put the team first.

“I thought you were going to take some time off.” Rachel managed to pack a decade of arguments into that mild rebuke. The promises he’d made, and broken, fell heavy between them.

He zipped up his bag and shoved it aside to sit on the edge of the bed. “If I stop training for a month, it will take me three to get back into playing condition. I can’t afford that. I’ve only got a season left, maybe two if I play some first base.” Funny, how much he’d wanted to play first as a kid, and how bitter the thought was now.

Rachel watched him, her face betraying nothing of what she thought. There was a time when he could read her mood in a glance, knew exactly what to say and do to get them back on track. Now it was hard work, and he failed as often as he succeeded. She looked so much like the sweet, open girl he’d first met at that gala, the one who was so impressed by the Padres’ young star catcher. Only around the eyes could he really see the difference, the hard shell she’d developed over years of interviewing athletes who’d rather fuck her than talk to her. “Mike, half your team leaves town in the off-season. You don’t need to train in San Diego, but you stay anyway.”

“The other guys leave because San Diego isn’t their home. What do you expect me to do? You call, you invite me up here, but I have no idea if you want more from me than a familiar lay.” Mike had figured out quickly that Rachel sleeping with him didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to reconcile. Dating his wife felt strange, but that was all she’d offered so far.

“Mike, we hurt each other. Badly. I can’t just pretend none of that happened.” Rachel’s voice wavered.

Mike scraped a hand through his beard. As if he could ever forget walking into their house and finding his wife in tears and his bags already packed, calling the front office on his drive down to San Diego only to find out that Oscar knew his wife was filing for divorce before Mike did.

“I don’t want to fight. But I have responsibilities as captain, even in the off-season. Especially when one of my pitchers is injured because I fucked up. She shouldn’t have been on the field that day. I got wrapped up in my own problems and lost sight of the job. I owe it to Baker to put in the time.”

Rachel sighed and sat down beside him. “You’re not the man I married. You’re not even the man I left. I’d like to know the man you are now, but … I don’t feel like I have your attention, even when you’re here. Last time we went out, your phone buzzed six times during dinner.”

“I don’t answer,” Mike pointed out. The texts were usually groupies, some making blatant offers, others pouting that they hadn’t heard from him lately. He hadn’t called or texted any of his usual hook-ups in months, but he hadn’t done anything to discourage their continued calls either.

Rachel squeezed his forearm. “I’m not trying to snoop, Mike.” She took a deep breath. “But a lot of the time it’s Ginny, and you do answer.”

Mike knew that. When Ginny was first injured, when things were still uncomfortable and awkward between them, when he couldn’t look at her without wishing Oscar had called a minute later, texting was easier. They’d fallen into the habit of texting back and forth a few times a day, coordinating workouts, commenting on games, trading information on Blip and Evelyn’s problems.

“Baker’s lonely. She’s one of the most easily recognized women in San Diego right now. She can’t go out without people hounding her. She’s estranged from her family, she fired her agent, and Blip and Evelyn are in marriage counseling.” He scrubbed a hand through his beard. Ginny needed a friend, and he was trying his damnedest to be that for her. “Between me and Duarte and Al, we keep an eye on her. She needs people she can trust, who don’t want anything from her.”

Rachel gave him a knowing look and stood. “You want her back on the mound.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Because it’s what she wants.” And she could do it. She was young and strong and determined. If he had an injury like that now, no one would expect him to return, least of all him.

“She’s not the only one who needs you.” Rachel held out a hand to him, and Mike took it, feeling every mile he’d run today as he stood.

He held her, because she needed reassurance. And he kissed her, because he needed to remind himself why he was fighting for her.

 


	5. Split Squad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For plot expediency, I'm ignoring the Padres' real Spring Training 2017 schedule. The show has them playing the Dodgers way more than they actually would, so I figure it's okay.

**March 2017**

Ginny stood in the middle of the visiting team clubhouse, staring at her cubby. She was tired and sore after throwing seven long, hard-fought innings, then sitting through what felt like a thousand questions in a Salt River Fields press room. How was her arm?  _ I threw 93 pitches today and struck out five batters. It’s fine.  _ How did it feel to be back on the mound?  _ Fan-fucking-tastic. Next question.  _ Ginny didn’t actually say that; she had learned something from watching Lawson effortlessly navigate half a season of pressers. 

As soon as Duarte had abandoned her to the wolves, they’d turned their questions back to last season, a topic they never seemed to lose interest in. Did she regret chasing that bunt?  _ Knowing what happened, yeah, of course, but I had a split second to make that call and I made it.  _ They wanted her to say that she knew Lawson and his failing knees wouldn’t reach the ball in time to make the throw, but she would never say that on the record. Bad enough that Mike had said the same thing when he drove her home from the hospital the day after the game. 

What did she and Lawson argue about on the mound after she started throwing wild?  _ Oh, nothing, just how awkward it’d been since we almost kissed, and then I told him to give me the damn ball and go away.  _ Ginny hadn’t said that either. She told them the same lie she’d been telling since Mike refused to answer the question after the game. He’d thought she was done, and she’d disagreed. 

Today had been worse than usual because the Padres had played split-squad games: half the team in Peoria against the Cubs and the other half in Scottsdale against the Rockies. Somehow Ginny had ended up in Scottsdale with Livan and a group of backups and minor leaguers while the rest of the Padres’ starters played the defending champs. 

They’d won, so at least she wouldn’t have to take any shit from the rest of the guys. By the time Ginny managed to escape the presser, she was the last player to reach the clubhouse, the last to hit the showers. And now she wanted to scream. Like every other away game, Ginny had a big folding screen around her cubby so she could change in relative privacy. At least she’d had a screen when she went to the showers. Now it was gone.

“Problem, Baker?” She flinched at the sound of that voice, that mocking drawl she’d learned to hate within a week of meeting D.C., currently the starting first baseman of the El Paso Chihuahuas. 

“Did you do this?” Ginny scanned the nearly-empty room, found her former teammate sitting spread-legged on the stool in front of his cubby. Six feet, 200 pounds of pure Indiana asshole. She’d been avoiding him ever since he showed up in Peoria two weeks earlier. 

D.C. shrugged. “The whole world’s already seen that ass, Baker.”  

“Still sad no one wants to see yours?” Ginny fired back. Based on the filthy suggestions he’d made to her over the years, she was sure his off-hours were spent watching a lot of porn and drinking. The drinking explained the gut he was developing at 26. 

“Come on, Baker.” He was leering now. So much for the shower Ginny had just taken. She felt dirtier than when she’d come off the field. D.C. leaned forward and licked his lips. “We both know you’re only here because you sell enough tickets and jerseys to make the front office ignore your bullshit excuse for a fastball. I give it one more season before you’re out on that tight ass.”  

The few players left in the clubhouse pretended not to hear any of this as they packed up and left, just like they always had in Texas. Ginny wished she could say she was surprised, but she wasn’t. Al always said the Padres were family, but family could be ugly as hell. Ginny pulled her towel more tightly around her and reached back to grab her gym bag. She could change in the bathroom, where the door locked. It wouldn't be the first time. 

“Get some new material, because this shit is getting old. Or better yet, call me when Nike puts your name on their clothes.” A cheap shot, but after all the times he'd insulted or propositioned her (often at the same time), he had it coming. 

"Hey, _mami_ , let’s go.” Ginny had never been more relieved to see Duarte walk into the clubhouse. He looked back and forth between her and D.C., his brow furrowed with concern. Livan had spent a few weeks in El Paso, he must remember what as ass the first baseman was.

D.C. tilted his head toward Livan but he was still staring at Ginny. He raised an eyebrow. “Lawson doesn’t mind sharing his toys?”

Livan stepped between them. “You got a problem,  _ cabron_?” 

“No problem here.” D.C. actually had the nerve to smile at him while Ginny seethed.

“Then go. The bus is waiting.” Livan stared the other man down while he gathered his things and left, completely unhurried. 

Livan followed him into the hall and closed the door behind them, but she wasn’t surprised to find he was still guarding the door when she was ready to leave. He was scowling the same way Lawson did. Livan wouldn’t appreciate the comparison, so she kept her mouth shut. 

Livan did not. “I don’t like him. He ever disrespects you again, you tell me.”

 

* * *

 

Ginny's private changing room in Peoria was a storage closet, hastily retrofit for her use. It barely fit her uniforms and gear, much less her chair. That chair made ominous creaking noises as it held Mike Lawson in his athletic shorts and an ancient Padres hoodie. Every time he tipped the chair back Ginny thought it might tip over and smack his head on her cubby. 

“Baker,” he said wearily, “why didn’t you tell me that guy was harassing you?”

Ginny leaned against the door, her arms crossed. Mike seemed to take up the entire closet, but at least this way she could look down on him. “He’s been hassling me for years. And you’d only make it worse.” Bad enough that Livan had stepped in.

Mike folded his arms across his chest. “Worse than some idiot minor leaguer getting into it with one of my players? Because that’s what happened last night.”

Ginny swore under her breath. “I told Livan to let it go.”

Mike chuckled mirthlessly. “Livan decided he’d rather choke the bastard for trying to get you naked in the clubhouse. Which I might have approved if he hadn’t done it in the middle of a crowded bar. So now I’ve got Al and Oscar breathing down my neck and reporters asking me about problems in the clubhouse  _ again_.”

Last summer, the story was never the Padres record or their actual games. It had been Blip and Tommy fighting, the guys resenting the attention Ginny got, Al’s head on the chopping block, Ginny’s All-Star selection after only a month in the majors, the nude photos, Duarte and Mike’s obvious antagonism, Mike’s trade, Ginny’s injury. She just wanted to keep her head down and play this year, not answer questions about how her presence upset the team’s chemistry. 

“I can take care of myself, Lawson. If you guys just believed that, we wouldn’t have a problem.” Ginny had learned all the way back in Little League that tattling on her teammates only created bigger problems. 

Mike scraped a hand through his hair and some of the annoyance in his eyes faded. “My problem is you’re so desperate to be one of the guys that you don’t even notice how the rest of the team acts. You’re the only one who doesn’t come to me, Baker. Just you, alone in your little closet here. Every guy on this team looks to me to solve their problems. Some days I can’t tell if I’m a team captain or a kindergarten teacher.”

The image of Lawson in a classroom full of tiny chairs occupied by large, uniform-clad men made her giggle, and Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth to cover it. 

Mike’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Think that’s funny, rookie? Kindergartners would be easier. Last week it was someone using Javanes’ mustache wax, Monday it was Elin and a minor leaguer trash talking in the outfield, and Wednesday it was Cristiello jerking off in the showers. Meanwhile I’ve gotta be ready to play first base at a moment’s notice because Salvamini’s wife is on bedrest and he might have to go home. So please, come to me when some asshole starts rumors about you fucking your teammates. I will happily put my boot up his ass. That’s my job, stop trying to take it away from me.” 

Most of the time Lawson made it look effortless, the line he walked between catcher and captain. Ginny often forgot just how much responsibility for this team he shouldered, how his life revolved around baseball nearly as much as hers did. She’d taken for granted how much of himself he’d given her until he stopped. Now he was right in front of her and Ginny still missed her surly, cocky old man and how easily he'd fit into her life. 

“I’ll try to give you a head’s up next time,” she offered, although that was about as likely as Mike showing up tomorrow clean-shaven. “Livan’s not in trouble, is he?” 

Mike shook his head and heaved himself out of the chair, putting them far too close. “Nah, he’ll miss a start, but that’s nothing. He’s kept his nose clean mostly so he got a warning. D.C. is on his way back to El Paso. Oscar will release him in a month or two. A guy with his attitude is a liability.”

Ginny felt a twinge of guilt over that, but she wouldn’t ask Oscar to reconsider. When D.C. missed a tag, he blamed everyone but himself. She moved away from the door to let Mike pass her.

He didn’t move. “ _Lawson doesn’t mind sharing his toys_? Ginny, I should have heard about that from you.” 

It shouldn’t get to her, the soft way he said her name, the grim set of his mouth and the hurt in his eyes. They were teammates, still friends she hoped, nothing more, but one moment between them made D.C.’s taunt harder to ignore. 

“I dated a catcher for a few weeks back in double A. My teammates found out, and D.C. has joked about me and my catchers ever since,” she admitted quietly.

“Davis.” It wasn’t a question. 

Ginny let out a long breath. Of course he’d figured it out. “Yeah.”

“Why him?”

The question caught her off guard, but she understood what he meant. Why break her rule for Trevor? “He told me he was quitting the game.”

A smile quirked his lips. “And you believed him?”

She smiled back. “I was an idiot.” And lonely enough to ignore her own rule. Trevor was smart, funny, and he had a beautiful smile and strong hands. If she hadn’t liked him so much, his lies wouldn’t have hurt her.

“He was the idiot.” Mike’s smile faltered. “Trust me, I know how easy it is to fuck up the best thing in your life.”

“Mike—” 

“Don’t, Baker. I’ll see you later.” 

 


	6. Boys Night In

**December 2016**

 

“We should do this more often.” Salvamini shrugged into his jacket and waited for the other guys in the foyer.

“I needed the break, man. A little beautification after seven months seeing your ugly mugs every day,” Sonny tossed back.   

“Beautification? What’s her name?” Dusty asked.

Sonny grinned. “Marisol. She’s a yoga instructor.”

Salvamini groaned. “Sanders, be grateful you have boys.” He pointed at Sonny. “I’ve gotta worry about guys like him hitting on my girls someday.” 

Mike caught the hurt that flickered across Blip’s face, but no one else did. Blip had confessed one day that he and Evelyn had fought bitterly about whether or not to have more children. Mike had been through that with Rachel years ago and didn’t envy his friend. 

“Where are the ladies? I thought Baker might hang with us tonight.” Sonny, as one of the few pitchers who stayed in San Diego in the off-season, had taken more than his share of shifts at Petco keeping an eye on Ginny. 

“I don’t know, man. You might want to give her some space,” Voorhies suggested with a grimace. Dusty had a long-term girlfriend whose political activism had rubbed off on Ginny during the run-up to the presidential election. Sonny had made the post-election mistake of jokingly telling Ginny that they needed to get over it. The epic rant he’d suffered through was well deserved as far as Mike was concerned.

“Whatever, Baker’s a big girl. So where is she? Hot date?” Sonny waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

The guys were still pushing Ginny to date one of the celebrities who’d shown interest in her. Drake had moved on, but one of the Chargers linemen tweeted at her frequently, and she’d met a number of actors and musicians at political events. Guys who didn’t actually know her and just wanted to be photographed with her (or brag that they’d fucked her). Ginny could date whoever she wanted, but Mike wasn’t about to push her toward those assholes. She deserved better. 

“You don’t follow Ginny on Instagram?” Blip asked, busily removing all evidence of the chips, salsa, and takeout pizza the guys had consumed before the twins could tell their mother about it. Sonny answered with a snort and a head shake. “They’re in New York, taking shop ‘til you drop literally.”

Mike pulled out his phone and showed Sonny a photo Evelyn had tagged Ginny in that afternoon. A mountain of shoeboxes surrounded her, the wall behind her a brilliantly-lit display of sky-high heels even Mike recognized as Christian Louboutins. Ginny was slumped in a chair, staring at her phone, purple Nikes on her feet. 

Mike knew exactly what she was thinking just then, because she’d been texting him. She hated high heels, and didn’t feel like paying $500 or more just because a pair had red soles. Then she’d complained that Evelyn wanted to go to La Perla next. Mike had taken a deep breath or five and wondered if she was deliberately torturing him or she’d forgotten their momentary lapse (he wasn’t sure which was worse). At least Ginny hadn’t texted him while lingerie shopping. A man had limits.

“Does Baker even wear high heels?” Sonny asked.

“She does when she has to,” Blip confirmed. “She looks like a baby giraffe trying to walk in them at first.”

“Let’s go, boys.” Salvamini opened the door and ushered his teammates through. Blip had suggested they call an Uber, but Salvi’s wife was pregnant and he’d sworn off alcohol along with her so he was driving the others home. 

Mike showed the guys out while Blip continued cleaning up. 

“Surprised you didn’t take credit for the girls’ trip,” Blip said after Mike returned to the living room.

“So you could blame me and complain about your wife’s spending?” Under the coffee table, enthusiastic crunching reminded Mike that they’d spilled some chips earlier. Blip wasn’t freaking out, so Doritos probably wouldn’t kill a spoiled rotten Yorkie.

Blip handed Mike a beer and frowned. “I don’t always do that, do I?” He opened his beer and collapsed into an armchair. 

“As long as I’ve known you? Yes,” Mike confirmed. “But come on, Ginny needed to blow off some steam.”

Blip sighed heavily. “Mike, you bought them a weekend in New York.”

“So? It’s her birthday.” What else could he get her? Ginny had plenty of money, and barely touched it. She didn’t need a piece of jewelry or a set of DVDs to watch alone in her condo. 

“And tickets to ‘Hamilton.’” Blip was giving him the eye again. In another life, Blip would have been a great cop. His interrogation skills were top notch.

And put that way, it did sound excessive, but Mike knew a guy who knew a guy, and it had been surprisingly easy to arrange. Who wouldn’t want to do a favor for Ginny Baker? Plus the look on her face had been totally worth it. 

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Right. Because you’re friends.” When had Blip developed that dry, disbelieving tone?

“We are,” Mike grumbled. This wasn’t the first time Blip had made a leading comment like that, as if he expected Mike to make some kind of confession. There was no confession to make. He was with Rachel. Hell, he was  _ living  _ with Rachel now, in their old house. 

“Not that I mind the company, but I was surprised you came down this week with Ginny gone.” That ridiculous dog jumped up and settled in Blip’s lap, shoving its little Dorito-dusted head (and much of its body) under Blip’s hand for petting. 

“It’s been awhile since we’ve hung out like this,” Mike reproached. Blip insisted that they were okay after the failed trade, but Mike couldn’t help but notice that they were always a foursome at the Sanders house and the invites always came from Evelyn or Ginny. 

Blip sipped his beer and petted the dog, which let out a contented little groan and closed its eyes. “Man, you know I had to take care of my marriage. I can’t lose Ev and the boys.”

_ Like you lost Rachel _ hung unspoken between them. Being a cautionary tale for the married players wasn’t pleasant, nor was the way the wives had all looked at him when he dove back into the sea of available groupies. Getting back with Rachel hadn’t really helped his cause. She’d never been comfortable with the other wives, and living in Los Angeles didn’t make it easier.

“How’s marriage counseling? Is everything your fault?” Mike tried to make it sound like a joke, but he was genuinely curious. He’d been so desperate when Rachel left him that he’d suggested therapy. She’d told him it was too late, that if he needed another person to force him to listen to her, there was no point.

Blip rolled his eyes. “Nah, it’s not like that. It’s like training. You do it because it’ll be worth it in the end, you know?” 

That much Mike did understand. “Yeah, I get it.” 

In his pocket, his phone vibrated at the same time Blip’s beeped on the coffee table. Mike pulled his out and checked the screen. He had two new messages. One from a woman he’d slept with a few times last spring. And the other a photo from Evelyn, of Ginny all dressed up somewhere holding a cupcake with a candle in it. She looked happy, with a bright smile and brighter eyes. Just seeing Ginny all lit up like that again made Mike smile, too.

When he looked up, Blip was glaring at him. “What are you doing, Mike?”

He might have played it off, made a joke, pretended he didn’t understand the question. Blip had earned an answer, holding his tongue for months. “I don’t know.” 

“I know something happened with Ginny, so don’t lie to me. And you know what? It wasn’t even a surprise, because I have eyes.” Blip’s hand closed a little too hard on the dog, which yipped and scurried away.

“Nothing—” The denial died under the force of Blip’s scowl. His knowing scowl, courtesy of his nosy, well-intentioned wife. What the hell. At least he didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t attracted to Ginny. “That was months ago, I’m with Rachel—”

“Man, wake up. You’re living with your wife but spending all your time with Ginny. You talked about her so much during the NLDS that the guys started a drinking game. They got blitzed taking a shot every time you mentioned her on-air.”

He hadn’t talked about her that much. Why would he? One of the first tips the guys at Fox Sports had offered after his terrible All-Star Game rehearsal was to only talk about your team and your playing when it was the best example to illustrate your point. Otherwise keep the focus on the subjects you’re discussing. But someone had asked about specialty pitches, he remembered that, and maybe he’d talked about her a little? If so, the radio silence from Rachel that week made more sense. Mike had expected to earn points with her, since Rachel had been pushing him toward broadcasting since his first knee injury, but instead he’d gotten the silent treatment when he came back. That setback had led him to offer to move back to L.A. 

“Ginny needed me.” A feeble excuse, but the one he’d told himself over and over the last few months, every time he caught himself noticing Ginny. The soft, vulnerable curve of her neck when she wore her hair up, the triumphant gleam in her eyes when she thought she’d bested him, the husky tone of her voice when he called her late at night. Mike hadn’t done that since moving back in with Rachel. He couldn’t lie in bed with his wife and talk to Ginny. He couldn’t talk to Ginny much at all with Rachel there listening.

“She has all of us, Lawson. The whole team. And her family if she’d let her mother help.  _ You  _ need to decide what you want. Because if it’s your marriage….” He leaned forward, eyes intent on Mike. “You’ve gotta stop doing this with Ginny.”

Something hot swelled in Mike’s chest. “I haven’t done anything.” He shot to his feet and thrust out his phone. “You want to check our texts? I know where the line is, Blip, and I haven’t crossed it.”

Blip looked at the phone but didn’t take it. “No? Where’s your wife?” 

“Green Bay. She’s interviewing Aaron Rodgers.” Something about Hollywood and the NFL. Rachel didn’t talk about her work much when things were going well. When she got frustrated it was all she could talk about.

“Check your phone. Who have you called this weekend? Who have you been texting today? I guarantee it wasn’t Rachel.” Blip sounded tired, which was good because Mike was tired of being lectured. He’d planned to sleep over and drive back to L.A. in the morning, but maybe it’d be better to crash at his place.

“You didn’t know me when Rachel and I were happy,” Mike finally said. “I’d never cheat. And you know Ginny wouldn’t.” Or maybe he didn’t know. Mike wasn’t about to ask if Blip knew about Janet Baker’s affair. Ginny had only ever hinted at it to Mike. 

Blip looked up at him and his expression softened. “All I’m saying is you don’t have to sleep with a girl to have an affair. The woman you tell your secrets, your fears, the one you want to tell first when good things happen, that’s who you’re with. And if you want your marriage to work, that has to be Rachel.”

Mike’s phone beeped again and he glanced at the screen, grimaced before tucking it into his pocket. Another woman he barely remembered. He sat down heavily, still thinking about what Blip had said. He was right. Damn it, he was right.

Blip cleared his throat. “Might be time to change your phone number, too.”

Mike dropped his head into his hands. Two weeks earlier Rachel had glanced at his phone on the kitchen counter when it beeped. And a pair of very large, very bare tits filled the screen. A reminder from a woman whose face Mike couldn’t even remember. Rachel had been livid. “Yeah, maybe,” he agreed. 

“You know I don’t want either of you getting hurt, right?” Blip wasn’t talking about Rachel, but Mike couldn’t help remembering the hurt in Rachel’s eyes when she yelled at him for fucking half of San Diego since their separation. That her eagerness to commit to David might have hurt Mike just as badly didn’t seem to have occurred to her.

“No one’s getting hurt,” Mike assured him. 

But even he didn’t believe that.

 


	7. Wrigleyville West

**March 2017**

 

Ginny was actually going to miss Arizona. 

After five weeks in Peoria, she could finally appreciate the recently refurbished facility, even if they had to share the stadium and the fields with the Mariners. She definitely enjoyed hopping on the bus to make an afternoon game in Mesa and arriving less than an hour later. She didn’t even mind the desert, relentlessly brown at first but now bursting with wildflowers and flowering trees. It reminded her of long early-season bus trips through the Texas hill country, covered in bluebonnets.

Her arm felt good. The sun on her face felt good. And the roar of the crowd felt good, even if they were cheering for the wrong team. Butch was on the mound, Duarte at home plate looking for a third strike against Javier Baez. Livan and Baez were two peas in a pod: neither had ever seen a first pitch they wouldn’t swing at. Ginny looked forward to reminding Duarte of that when he came back to the dugout. 

“You were right, old man,” she admitted grudgingly, nudging Lawson with her elbow. They stood side by side against the railing, watching the bottom of the ninth. “This is a vacation compared to the regular season.”

He squinted and snapped his gum, his sunglasses uselessly stowed on the back of his cap. “Of course I’m right.” Mike glanced over at her. Under the beard he was a little sunburned. “We only played four innings.”

She shrugged. “I can live with that as long as Skip’s letting me play.” 

Baez fouled one off into the left field stands. The crowd started chanting his name.  

Ginny and Mike had both come out early, as they had been for weeks. She was getting used to it, but clearly Mike wasn’t. Limited innings catching, with occasional games at first base as needed, would minimize the chances of Lawson getting hurt, and maximize the number of games he was available. If the game was tight, he would stay in, but not here where the wins didn’t matter. Ginny’s elbow was nearly back to normal, but the coaches and trainers both felt that limiting her innings in games where the score wasn’t close was prudent. She’d never pitched a full Major League season, and no one wanted a repeat of last season, least of all her.

“I wanted to hit a few off Hendricks,” Mike grumbled. He’d popped out and grounded a single. Not exactly what he’d planned for today, surrounded by 15,000 Cubs fans with their W flags and the World Champion pennants all over the place. 

“And I wanted to strike out Kris Bryant. It’s not all about you.” Ginny grinned at his scowl. She loved tossing his words back at him. 

Baez swung and the ball smacked right into Duarte’s glove. Game over. 

The guys playing came off the field, everyone grabbing their gear and heading back into the bowels of Sloan Park. The Cubs’ Spring Training home was new and swank, Ginny had to admit. Big-market clubs got perks teams like San Diego never would, but she didn’t mind. She was just stupidly grateful Mike wasn’t in pinstripes today, batting against her instead of catching. 

She showered and changed without worrying her things would be missing from the clubhouse. Sending D.C. back to Texas had put the fear of God in the rest of his buddies, and they’d been ignoring her as much as possible ever since. That suited Ginny just fine. 

When she was ready to go, Mike and Blip were walking out too. 

“So, what about that Mexican place near downtown for dinner?” Blip asked as they headed for the bus. 

“What is it with you and Mexican food? We live right across the border,” Ginny protested. She didn’t mind Mexican food again, but she couldn’t let Blip get his way all the time. Evelyn insisted on it actually.

“If you’re going into Phoenix, pick me up some deep dish from Lou Malnati’s. Only part of the trade falling through that I regret,” Mike butted in.

Ginny patted his stomach as they walked around the corner. “Your waistline doesn’t regret it.” He wasn’t soft there, not really, though she saw the envious way he looked at the younger guys, most of whom were more sculpted and leaner through the middle than Mike. Duarte in particular looked Photoshopped and liked to post shirtless workout pictures on his Instagram. 

Mike froze, and her hand fell away. She couldn’t read the look on his face as he said, “What are you doing here?”

Ginny turned and saw the redhead standing fifteen feet down the corridor. 

“Nice to see you, too, Mike,” Rachel Patrick answered dryly. 

Mike made no move to close the distance between them. 

Blip cleared his throat. “We’ll save you a seat, man.” He glared pointedly at Ginny, and she nodded, leaving Mike and Rachel behind while they continued toward the bus.

“What’s that all about?” she asked under her breath.

“I don’t know,” Blip answered. “Nothing good.”

Ginny snuck a glance over her shoulder. Mike was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, and Rachel’s hand rested on his forearm. They were looking at each other, and Ginny couldn’t quite read his eyes. Considering how much she usually saw through his catcher’s mask from 60 feet away, that was frustrating.

“Did he tell you anything?” Blip asked, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation but worried enough to talk behind Mike’s back. 

They went through a glass door leading out to the players’ parking lot. The sun hit her again full force after the fluorescent-lit stadium corridors, and Ginny stopped on the sidewalk to bask in it for a moment. “He left her this time. That’s it.”

Blip nodded. “She didn’t cheat again. I didn’t press him to tell me more.”

“Is that a guy thing? Talking about sex instead of relationships?” Ginny knew way more about her teammates’ sex lives than she really wanted to. They tended to forget she was there on the bus or out at a bar, which made seeing their wives and girlfriends uncomfortable. Sonny’s girlfriend would skin him alive if she knew that he had mentioned their more acrobatic encounters. 

Blip made a face. “Ginny, come on.” 

Ginny shoved him lightly. “Go on, Blip. I’ll wait for Lawson. Might get more than a grunt out of him.” 

Blip glanced between her and the bus waiting at the far end of the sidewalk. “You sure?” 

If Mike and Rachel walked out together, it would be awkward, but awkward was their new normal. Ginny pushed Blip again. “Go on. Last thing we need is a mopey captain while we’re stuck in traffic after a loss.”

“It’s your funeral,” Blip grumbled, but he headed for the bus. The clubbies were almost done loading up their gear, so if Mike didn’t come out soon, Ginny would have to go back and get him anyway. 

She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes against the late afternoon glare. Traffic noise from the highway interchange just west of the stadium complex droned in her ears. She didn’t mind the ride back to Peoria, upwards of an hour at this time of day, or even sharing a condo with the whole Sanders clan on the weekends. Soon enough they’d be back to the regular season grind: waiting out weather delays crammed into airport lounges in St. Louis and Pittsburgh, hearing Stubbs snoring through the wall in another chain hotel in Seattle or Atlanta, and Melky refusing to change his socks during winning streaks.

“Groupies hang out at the other exit.” Mike passed by her before she heard the door close behind him. 

“You would know,” she answered tartly, opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn't spoken. 

He stopped, hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Right. Get on the bus, Baker.”

This was their way, teasing and barbed comments lobbed back and forth. She never took it personally, and neither did he. But this time, this comment was a low blow, different from teasing him about his age or his fielding, neither of which bothered her, especially with all the work he’d done in the off-season to improve his fielding.

Ginny pushed away from the wall, tried to catch his eyes, which were avoiding hers. “Are you okay?”  

“Why wouldn't I be?” Mike finally looked at her, and he wasn’t quite back to burying his feelings under a facade of massive arrogance, but he was close. She actually missed the surliness he’d been slowly shedding over the past few weeks. At least it was more honest. 

She might as well be honest, too. Ignoring the elephant in the room wasn’t working, and she was tired of tiptoeing around any mention of the last few months. “Your ex-wife just ambushed you.”

Mike shrugged like that didn’t matter. Like his ex-wife just casually waited outside the visitors’ clubhouse all the time. Rachel was probably at Sloan Park for work, but she’d made a point to find Mike. “She already got half of everything I owned, and I don’t feel a knife in my back. Not sure what else you think she could do to me, rookie.”

“Lawson, don’t bullshit me.”

Mike crossed his arms, deeply tanned forearms dark against his white shirt. “We had some unfinished business. You can keep picking at this and piss me off, or get on the bus and I'll buy dinner.”

“You sure about that? I’m not a cheap date.” Ginny didn't realize what she'd said until his smile froze. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

He held up a hand. “Stop. Baker, you’re exhausting. We can talk … some other time. The bus is about to leave us just to make a point, and in a minute Rachel’s going to walk out that door. So can we go?” Mike was tired and exasperated, but a hint of a smile was still lurking under that beard. He didn’t really mind that Ginny waited for him, that she cared. 

They made it to the bus just as the driver revved the engine, something Ginny didn’t even realize you could do with a bus. Blip had saved two seats for them across the aisle from him. From the disgruntled looks on a couple of their teammates, Ginny suspected he’d made a few guys move to let them sit together. 

All the way back to Peoria, Mike looked out the window, and Ginny tried not to wonder why Rachel had come to see him.

 


	8. The Five-Year Plan

**February 2017**

 

After 16 years in San Diego, Mike knew every restaurant where the club wined and dined players. He could often judge what would happen beforehand just by which restaurant they picked. With the last year of his contract looming, Mike expected a pre-Spring Training invitation to Oscar’s favorite seafood restaurant in Coronado. 

Instead Rhonda called to schedule dinner at Oscar’s house in Carmel Valley. Mike didn’t know what the hell to make of that. When he told Rachel about the call, she immediately pointed out that whatever Oscar wanted to talk about, he didn’t want to do it in public. 

On the drive down from L.A., Mike called Blip to get the latest team gossip, but all Blip wanted to talk about was his terrible double date the night before. Ginny’s date, a Chargers running back, had complained all evening about the team’s move from San Diego to Los Angeles. Mike cranked up his stereo all the way down the 5 to distract him from wondering what Ginny saw in that idiot.  

The sun was setting when he pulled up to a surprisingly modest house. Or maybe not so surprising considering Oscar’s divorce had been finalized a few months earlier. Al’s ‘68 Mustang was in the driveway. Restoring that car had kept him going after Anna died. What the hell was Al doing at Oscar’s house, unless.... Unless Al was retiring. 

The house was modest. The view from the backyard was not, high atop a hill with the Pacific spread out in the distance. Oscar manned the grill while Al and Mike drank beers and traded stories. The last of the steaks disappeared and Oscar opened a bottle of expensive tequila. That made Mike more nervous, not less. He was relieved when the hammer came down.

“Mike, I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to come tonight.”

“I figured it wasn’t to reminisce about the good old days,” Mike answered dryly.

Oscar and Al chuckled a little, but it sounded forced. Al shifted in his chair and scratched at the back of his neck. “You remember how Maxine Richardson and I had that talk back in October?” 

Mike nodded. He’d been leaving for Chicago, for another humbling attempt at game commentary. He wasn’t terrible, but Ginny said he had murder-eyes when he looked at A-Rod and according to Rachel he said ‘I mean’ about a million times. She wanted him to work with a media training consultant before he tried again, like he hadn’t been handling the press for almost 20 years. 

“She thinks, and I agree, that the team needs to be planning more long-term,” Al continued.

“Theo Epstein’s five-year plan,” Mike supplied. The Cubs’ president of baseball operations had taken two seemingly cursed teams to the promised land with that strategy.

Oscar leaned forward, his polo shirt pulling tight against his chest. Mike had never seen him without a tie before. “Our question is whether you’re interested in being part of that plan.”

“You’re questioning my commitment to this team?” Mike didn’t bother hiding his irritation. Sixteen years and his loyalty was still in question? " _You _ wanted to trade me last season.”

“I killed that trade, Mike. Me. I tried for weeks to talk Charlie out of even asking to put you on waivers. I gave you an out, and you didn’t take it.” Oscar, who never let business decisions get personal, looked almost as angry as the day Ginny got hurt. “I put my job on the line to keep you a Padre and now I can’t tell if you even want to be here.”

“Mike.” Al didn’t need to raise his voice to get his captain’s attention. “You moved back to L.A. and you haven’t been to the ballpark in over a month.”

Half the team hadn’t seen the inside of Petco since September, but even during his marriage Mike had always come to the ballpark at least once a week in the off-season. “I’ve been doing my conditioning in L.A.”

Al sighed. “I’m sure you have. My problem is, I’ve got Baker practicing with Duarte, and he doesn’t push her like you do. She gets frustrated and instead of working through it or watching some tape he takes her out to lunch or to the beach. Normally I would have called and asked you to come whip them into shape, but I don’t know where your head is at lately.”

Right now Mike’s head was ping ponging between visions of Ginny and Livan flirting on a beach somewhere and a strong urge to punch Livan in his pretty, smirking face. If he allowed himself to check her social media, there were probably pictures. Mike sipped his drink and tried to get his head back in the game. “I’ll work with them in Arizona. Right now I need to put my marriage first.”

Oscar and Al shared another look Mike didn’t like. Neither seemed surprised by his answer, but they weren’t thrilled with it either. Well, tough, they didn’t live with Rachel and her disappointed looks every time his phone rang. 

Oscar turned back to Mike. “We know you’ve done some broadcasting and maybe that’s where you’d like to end up. I’m just asking you to consider continuing on with the Padres. There are options that don’t require extensive travel, if that’s an issue.”

That was a huge issue, and Al knew it. He looked away and sipped his beer to avoid Mike’s eyes. Twice in the weeks after Rachel kicked him out, Mike had gotten drunk and poured out his heart to Al. Mike had shared some things that looking back he regretted telling anyone, much less his boss and mentor. 

Al cleared his throat. “Mike, whatever might … complicate your situation, we can work around it.” Now he did meet Mike’s eyes, and Mike wished he hadn’t. Al’s expression was soft and knowing and Mike got the distinct impression the skipper wasn’t talking about Rachel anymore. 

“I’ll think about it,” Mike offered, if only to change the subject, “but where does Al fit in this plan? Frank Reid tried to oust him, and the new guy seems to prefer youth over experience.”

“Charlie’s out.” Al smiled a little smugly. He’d never liked Charlie Graham. The guy was so focused on the numbers, he couldn’t see the players behind them anymore, if he ever had. If anyone doubted the importance of personality and chemistry on a team, they only had to look at Jason Heyward, whose unimpressive stats last season were more than balanced by his leadership during the World Series rain delay. 

“Out? That was fast.” And not necessarily a good thing. Sure, Charlie wasn’t Mike’s biggest fan, but there was no guarantee the next guy would be.

Oscar leaned back in his chair. “Ownership liked that he looked at the team through fresh eyes. Until he antagonized the grounds crew, made arbitrary decisions about the budget without consulting anyone, insisted on playing our most profitable player after analytics shut her down, and tried to practically give you away against my advice and Al’s.” He glanced at Al again. “He also hit on Maxine’s daughter at the Christmas party.”

They all laughed at that, though Oscar somewhat uncomfortably. Mike had brushed off rumors that Oscar dated one of Al’s daughters last season, but maybe there was some truth to it. Maxine Richardson’s daughter, on the other hand, had been married three times, and seemed to pick each man specifically to annoy her mother. 

When the laughter died down, Al fiddled with his beer bottle for a minute, then looked up at Mike with that unfair mix of affection and pride that made it almost impossible to tell the man ‘no’ if he wanted something. “None of us are getting any younger. I don’t know if my ticker could even handle a playoff run. When the time comes, I’ll go. Until then I’m going to do my damnedest to get us both a ring. You game for that?”

Mike smiled back at his manager and mentor, and for the first time wondered if the skipper had his own five-year plan. “Sure, if the Cubs can do it, how hard can it be?”

 

* * *

  
“Wow, I haven’t heard country in awhile. Blake Shelton?”

Mike looked up from the tomatillos he was cutting. Rachel was leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching him. She seemed to have a million of those cute little suits, but this was one of his favorites. Ocean blue and cut to emphasize every curve.

“Kenny Chesney.” He reached over and killed the music coming from his phone. Rachel didn’t like country, so Mike didn’t usually listen to it when she was home. “Dinner will be ready in 20 if you want to change.”

Dinner was ready in half an hour, largely because Rachel came back in yoga pants and a Michigan sweatshirt ready to pour herself a glass of wine and complain about the punk NBA player who'd stood her up for an interview today. 

Mike mostly nodded and made noises of agreement while he sautéed chicken and simmered a sauce. She didn't like it when he “tried to solve her problems” for her, she just wanted to vent. 

“How was your meeting last night?” Rachel asked as he was plating their dishes. Mike had stayed in San Diego overnight and driven back this morning without stopping at Petco.

“Fine. Al was there, too. Charlie Graham was let go, but they won't make an announcement until the owners pick a replacement.” Mike carried the plates to the dining table while Rachel followed with her wine and his beer. Rachel wouldn't tell anyone at Fox Sports about Charlie. She’d always kept her roles as wife and reporter separate. 

“I’m glad Al was there,” she said as they sat across from each other at the table. “Then you could tell both of them you don’t need to negotiate a new contract.” Rachel pushed her salad around with a fork. She always inspected the food he cooked, like he would sneak in something fatty or an ingredient she didn’t like.  

“I don’t?” The chicken was a little overcooked. It was shredding under his knife. He should’ve paid closer attention to it. At least the sauce was good.

“Well, you are retiring this year.”

Mike nearly choked on a bite of dry chicken. “I’m doing what?”

Rachel's brow furrowed and she set down her fork. “Last summer, you said you would if we got back together.”

He did? He remembered confessing how bad his knees had gotten, how much he missed her… shit, yeah, he’d offered to retire. And then she'd told him she was engaged. Mike needed a long drink to get down his food. “Rach, that was June. I asked  _ what if  _ I retired. This team might need me another year.”

She reached for her wine glass, her lips pursed. “I wish you'd said something before I started talking you up at the network.” 

“You didn't ask,” Mike pointed out, which earned him a glare. 

“You said it would be different this time.” The accusation was quiet but no less damning. 

“It  _ is  _ different.” Mike was here—with her—all the time. He only trained when Rachel was at work. He’d changed his phone number, deleted the groupies from his phone. They’d spent a long weekend together in Tahoe after all the bowl games ended. Mike had barely spoken to any of his teammates since Christmas, and Ginny not at all. She’d stopped calling and texting after a few days without a response, which made him feel like a complete asshole.

Rachel stabbed her salad a few times and brought a bite to her mouth. She watched him while she chewed. Another interview tactic, something she’d picked up from  _ Law and Order _ of all places. Make the other person fill the silence. “So you’ll go to Arizona, spend Valentine’s Day with your pitcher—”

“That’s not fair. I don’t make the schedule. And you and I are going out next weekend.” Mike had gotten them reservations at the best restaurant he could, but his name didn’t earn him any special treatment here. The restaurant was in Malibu, it was ridiculously expensive, and the menu was in French so Mike could barely tell what they served. His agent had suggested it.

Rachel continued like he hadn’t even spoken. “And you’ll be gone for six weeks. Then you come back and play 162 games. When am I going to see you?” 

Mike dropped his fork, wincing when it clattered against the plate and splashed tomatillo sauce on the placemat. He’d be starving in an hour, but right now he couldn’t eat another bite. “You could come stay in San Diego sometimes.”

One red eyebrow rose. “In that massive monument to your ego? Or is it your libido?” 

Mike didn’t justify that with a response. Mostly because his jaw was clenched so tightly he couldn’t speak, and if he did, he was going to raise his voice, and then she’d start crying. It never failed.

Rachel pushed away her plate, almost untouched. “I have to tape a show every week, Mike, or the network will find another Katie Nolan to replace me. Someone younger and prettier who curses like a frat boy and drinks on-camera. I can’t just take off and follow you around like a good little WAG.” 

“I never asked that of you.” He hadn’t. For years his in-season home had been a small condo overlooking Mission Bay, which Rachel rarely visited. Mostly Mike went to her whenever he could, or they met up on the road. She’d never tried to befriend the WAGs and didn’t take his name. If their wedding hadn’t been mentioned in  _ People  _ magazine, her audience might not have known he was her husband.  

“No, you never ask anything of me, Mike. You just expect me to be there when you need me.” Rachel’s voice wavered. She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to take a bath. I’m not very hungry right now.” 

“What do you want me to do?” Mike kept his voice as even as he could, but it took all his effort. Rachel was his wife. His family. Not one of his players. He wasn’t going to yell or throw something, no matter how much he wanted to.

“ _Be here_.” She blinked away tears. “I hated seeing you on TV more than I saw you at home.” 

“I missed you, too. You know I did,” Mike reminded her. It was hell the first few weeks every season. And then, well, he got used to it. The calls and texts between them slowed down. When he came home, they usually spent a whole day in bed if they could, and then they went back to their real lives, apart, until the end of the season. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked until it didn’t. 

“Then get some on-camera training,” she pleaded. “Make an effort. For god’s sake, you’re 36 years old. You can’t coast on being a catcher forever.” 

It was the way she said ‘catcher’ that made him speak. For someone who spent so much time around professional athletes, Rachel had always been dismissive of sports as a real career. He had the face and the presence for broadcasting, she’d been saying that for years. It might not pay as well, but it would last, unlike his knees. “I don’t have to do television. I could retire and work for the team.”

“Is that what Oscar wants?” Rachel scowled. “The Padres aren’t the Cubs, and you’re not David Ross. You're already better than him on-camera and he got a deal with ESPN, too. You just need to try a little harder.”

“They said I wouldn’t have to travel as much as I do now,” he pointed out. She was busy too. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t gone so often and for so long each time.

Rachel shook her head. “But you would still live in San Diego.” 

“Well, yeah,” Mike admitted. “During the season I’d have to, but I could probably be here most weekends.” He ran a hand over his beard. She'd asked him to trim it down and it itched. “Rach, baseball is the only thing I've ever been good at. I know you want me to be more, but I can’t. I've tried.”

“That's bullshit. You always loved the game more than me.” The bitterness in her voice hurt but he expected it. These were familiar arguments.

Deja vu washed over him. How many times had they had this fight, in this room, over a cooling meal he'd throw away while she punished him with her silence? How many more times would they have it? “This isn't going to work,” he said quietly, surprising himself even as he said it.

Rachel’s next breath was half sob. A tear slid down her cheek. “It's not just the game, is it?”

That was complicated, but the first thought in his head had dimples, wore 43 on her back, and made answering easy. “No.”

She wiped tears from her cheeks and turned her back on him. “I'll be home around 6 tomorrow. You should be gone by then.”

“Rach—”

“Don't. Just let me go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my Cubs fandom is showing in this chapter again, but I think Mike would have followed them a lot more closely since the end of show season 1 because he almost became one of them. Also, I know the show made the Cubs' contact Ted Copeland, but Theo Epstein is the Cubs' real president of baseball operations and his history works better here than the fictional pretty boy ironically played by a guy named Mark Lawson. Mike also references Jason Heyward's Game 7 speech during a pivotal rain delay, and Rachel mentions David Ross. The 39-year-old Cubs catcher nicknamed Grandpa Rossy retired after hitting a home run in his final at-bat, in Game 7 of the World Series. Last month the club named him a special assistant to baseball operations, and then he inked a deal to do analysis for ESPN.


	9. Field of Dreams

“Come on, just tell me I’m not old.”

Ginny couldn’t help laughing. “Who said you were?” 

Evelyn sipped her wine while Ginny rolled up another pair of leggings and tucked them into her suitcase. “My classmates. They don’t have to say it, it’s the way they look at me, like a museum exhibit.” She pretended to read off an invisible card in her hand. “Housewife, mother of two, relic of the days before feminism.” 

“Ev, you’re not even thirty,” Ginny pointed out. Not until May, and if Blip valued his life he wouldn’t make a huge fuss over it. 

“They’re children, Ginny. They wear pajamas to class and think 40 is ancient.” She eyed the open suitcase. “We need to buy you more clothes not made of lycra.”

“They’re comfortable,” Ginny grumbled. She liked her leggings. She liked shoes without heels and hairstyles that didn’t take an hour and three electrical appliances to achieve. But since it made Evelyn happy to dress her up like a life-sized Barbie doll once in awhile, Ginny went along with it.

“So are pajamas, but we don’t wear them in public. Because we’re adults.”

Ginny allowed herself to envy Ev’s classmates for a moment. Sometimes she missed that kind of life, where she could run to the grocery store in Wonder Woman lounge pants and a tank top without ending up all over the Internet. She was only four years older than Ev’s classmates at UCSD, but she’d gone directly from her father dictating her every move to constantly feeling that any misstep on her part could be grounds for the Padres to release her. She’d worked too hard to let that happen. 

“Are you sleeping in this too?” Evelyn asked, holding up a boxy men’s T-shirt with her nose wrinkled in distaste.

“That’s for Mike’s birthday. I saw a kid wearing one and asked him where he got it.” One of the nearby colleges had a lumberjack mascot, and the shirt had a big lumberjack charging forward carrying a massive axe. Between the flannel shirts and the beard, all Mike was really missing was the axe.

“For Mike, huh?” Evelyn folded up the shirt and put it in the suitcase, watching Ginny closely.

At least she hadn’t bought the “Lumberjacks do it better” shirt, but Ginny wasn’t about to point that out. After a minute of her friend’s scrutiny, Ginny knelt and checked under the bed for stray socks. Eww. No socks, just a suspicious stain that explained why the bed in here was slightly off-center on the wall. “Alright, I’m done,” she said as she got back up. “You think Blip’s even started yet?”

Evelyn chuckled. “No, he’s been wrestling with the grill on the balcony for awhile. If we’re lucky he’ll figure it out before I have to order pizza.” For their last night in Arizona, the boys had requested burgers. Rather than go out, Blip had decided to fire up the grill they hadn’t touched the entire six weeks he and Ginny had been living here.

Ginny’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. She ignored it, flipping her suitcase lid closed and zipping it up. With the team returning to San Diego and Ginny’s spot on the roster assured, sports agents had been contacting her nonstop. She didn’t feel like dealing with that yet.

Evelyn leaned over and read the text. Her eyebrows went up. “Mike says, ‘Right field lawn. I have grape soda.’ Does that mean something to you?”

“Who else did he send it to?” 

“Just you.” Evelyn’s voice was knowing. Not for the first time, Ginny wished she’d never told Evelyn about the one moment between she and Mike. Sometimes she wished she didn’t remember it either. If Pop had let her date in high school, if her minor league schedule hadn’t limited her to one-night stands and relationships that never got past a handful of dates, maybe that moment wouldn’t still feel important. Maybe she’d be able to look at Mike without remembering how it felt when he held her.

Avoiding Evelyn’s questioning gaze, Ginny hauled the suitcase off the bed and stood it against the wall. This one was already on its last legs. One wheel wobbled and the back sported a rip patched with Padres duct tape from their road trip to Toronto. She’d meant to retire this suitcase after last season, but Pop bought it for her in high school and she felt like he was still with her every time she packed it. 

Ginny grabbed the phone. “I’m going to go see what he wants. Don’t hold dinner for me, okay?” 

“So that’s it? He texts and you go? Again?” Evelyn sounded both frustrated and protective, and Ginny loved her for it, but she did not envy the twins’ future girlfriends. Ev’s excitement over the brief possibility of Mike and Ginny had swiftly turned into a campaign to show Mike exactly what he was missing. 

“This isn’t the same, Ev.” She tucked her wallet into her pocket and texted him a ten minute ETA. 

“Girl, I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Ginny shook her head. “It’s just Mike.” 

Evelyn held up a hand. “Please. If that man wasn’t your captain you would have climbed him like a tree months ago, with my blessing. But Rachel snapped her fingers and he disappeared. If he hurts you, I’m gonna have to kill him, and then Blip will be mad ‘cause the team still needs him.”

How did she always know just what to say? Ginny reached over and hugged her friend tightly. She wasn’t sure if she’d have survived the last year without Evelyn. “Don’t worry.”

Evelyn huffed a laugh. “I haven’t stopped worrying a single day since my boys were born.” She cocked her head to the side. “Speaking of my boys, they’re suspiciously quiet.”

While Evelyn went in search of the boys, Ginny took that opportunity to slip away. A shortcut through the condo complex took her to the road leading to the stadium. It was only half a mile away, but once inside the players’ entrance Ginny realized she didn’t know how to get to the spectator seating, much less the lawn seating beyond the outfield. She considered just hopping the wall, but it was taller than it looked from the pitcher’s mound, and it took her another ten minutes to reach Mike. 

He was sprawled on a Padres logo blanket he probably sweet talked out of someone at a souvenir stand, a picnic cooler anchoring one corner. His hat was pulled low over his face as if he were sleeping, Padres t-shirt riding up in front enough to show a strip of pale stomach. He was a bit leaner than last year, more agile on the field but still solidly built. One of these days that hint of skin wouldn’t give her a shivery feeling and a strong desire to touch him.  

Ginny nudged his thigh with her foot. “Napping, old man?” 

Mike reached up and pushed back his cap, squinting up at her. “You get lost, rookie?”

She ignored that and dropped down onto the blanket beside him. The ground still held the day’s warmth along with enough spilled popcorn, bits of hot dog bun, and peanut shells to attract birds. Sparrows and doves pecked at the grass around them. 

A bold little cactus wren chose that moment to land on the cooler. Mike sat up and shooed it away. “Did you eat yet?” he asked, opening the cooler and pulling out two glass bottles. He pressed the top of one bottle against his forearm and twisted, popping the cap off. 

“Um, no.” Why the hell was that hot? 

She watched him do it again, although this time he seemed to realize she was watching. Was he showing off? His smug grin and the way his arms flexed said yes.  Mike passed her a bottle, keeping one for himself. Hers was grape Fanta, his Four Peaks Kiltlifter. 

“Living dangerously,” she teased him. She’d passed at least six different signs and bag search stations by the public entrances all warning that glass wasn’t allowed in the ballpark. 

“I’m a rebel, Baker.” He winked at her and smiled, not the smirk the groupies must love, but the grin that made his cheeks chipmunk round and warmed her better than the setting sun. 

“So what’d you bring me to eat?” she asked, her stomach rumbling at the thought of food. She’d eaten hurriedly before the game, and since they were leaving tomorrow the cupboards at the condo were bare. 

Mike just smiled and sipped his beer, so Ginny scooted around him and opened the cooler. An undignified little shriek escaped Ginny just from looking inside. Foil-wrapped Sonoran hot dogs, freshly-made tortilla chips with guacamole and salsa, a paper sack of cinnamon-sugar dusted buñuelos, and watermelon chunks with a little bottle of Tajin to sprinkle over the top. All her favorites from a little restaurant they’d gone to the first week and Ginny had mentioned wistfully as the bus rolled past it again a few days ago. “How did you—”

“Turns out the clubbies here will do just about anything for a little extra cash.” Mike shrugged, but he was still smiling. He reached around her to grab a hot dog and they both dug into the food.

This part was easy. Ginny ate with a focus and lack of good manners that would shame her mother. Mike put away just as much food as she did, if not more. As they finished eating, napkins littering the grass around them, he chuckled and pointed at her mouth. “You’re covered in sugar, rookie. Haven’t you eaten one of these before? Gotta just pop the whole thing in your mouth.”

“You trying to say I’m sweet, Lawson?” Ginny swiped awkwardly at her mouth, sucking the sugar off her fingertips, and regretted it when she saw him watching her. Trying not to make things weird between them took effort. She waved a hand at him. “Half your dinner’s stuck in that beard, unless you’re saving it for later.”

Mike scowled and pulled one more napkin out of the cooler, brushing away the few sugar crystals clinging to his beard. 

The sun had sunk behind the western horizon while they ate, and Ginny was grateful for the distraction. She lay back to watch the sunset, the thin clouds overhead a deep plum warming to vibrant pink as they approached the bright gold horizon. She missed the ocean, but this was beautiful too. “This is heaven.”

“It ain’t Iowa,” Mike drawled.

“ _Field of Dreams_ , really?” Mike had hounded her repeatedly over the off-season to watch all the supposed classic baseball movies her father had never shown her. But after she found herself crying over  _ The Sandlot_, she stopped. Too many reminders of her own lonely childhood. 

“One of these days you do actually have to watch it, Baker.” He flopped down beside her, closer than she expected. She’d just have to get used to that again. He’d spent so much time with Al in Arizona that it sometimes felt like he was avoiding her.

“Bring it on the plane sometime. I’ll fall asleep halfway through and you can pretend I watched,” she offered. With any other guy, she might wonder if he was suggesting they watch it together. But this was Mike. She didn’t trust her instincts where he was concerned. 

“I played there once, in single A. Clinton LumberKings. We had an exhibition game against another single A team, a night game under the lights.” He chuckled. “I spent the whole game waiting for Ray Liotta to walk out of the corn in a White Sox uniform.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Ginny teased, no scorn in her words. Mike loved the game, the history and superstition and magic of it all. Pop hadn’t trusted in any of that. She’d asked her mom about it once. Janet Baker said that her father’s belief in the magic of baseball died the day he broke his ankle trying to steal second in a college game. He went undrafted and ended up working construction until the day he died. It wasn’t the life he’d wanted, and he’d resented what he couldn’t have.

“No, your education is sorely lacking, rookie,” Mike corrected. He’d made his views on her father’s brand of coaching clear, and he didn’t even know the half of it. But Mike didn’t know what it was like to have your father coaching you. She never could stand Pop’s disappointment.

“That’s what I’ve got you for, right?” Ginny said it lightly, giving him a playful shove, but Mike was oddly silent. 

Maybe she didn’t have him. Maybe that was why he asked her to meet him tonight. She suddenly felt incredibly stupid. What if his moods, his withdrawal from team activities, his sudden disappearance after Christmas, weren’t just about Rachel? 

Ginny popped up onto one elbow, turning to look at him. “Are you retiring?” 

The words landed like a blow, a grimace flickering across his face. His eyes were shadowed by his cap, and Ginny none too gently yanked the cap off his head. “Lawson. Are. You. Retiring?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a sigh, finally looking her in the eye. Mike was serious, resigned, too much like he’d been when they talked about the team trading him to Chicago. “Maybe. You know I’m not going to get the big curtain call, Baker. It’s just going to happen, probably when I’m least ready.”

Ginny stole the beer bottle he held loosely in one hand, took a healthy swig, then handed it back. “What are you talking about, old man?” She regretted her choice of words immediately, but Mike didn’t seem to mind.

Mike levered himself up to sit, his back popping, finished the beer and put the empty bottle back in the cooler. “Up until a couple of years ago, I still thought I could go out on top, grand slam in the World Series, home crowd cheering, MVP, the whole nine yards.” He shook his head. “One day my knee’s just going to give. Might not even be on the field.” 

Ginny sat up, feeling awkward still lying beside him. “We could still go to the Series. I don’t want to do it without you.” 

She couldn’t see his smile from this angle, but she felt it. “Might not have to.”

“It’s not the same if you’re in the broadcast booth, Lawson.” In her daydreams of winning the World Series, they were always at home under the lights of Petco Park, she was on the mound even though it made no sense, and Mike was always behind home plate, flipping off his mask and streaking toward her with the team collapsing into a celebrating heap around them. 

“What if I was still a Padre?” He looked over at her, half his face lit by the fading sun and the rest in shadow. “Oscar called me down for a meeting about two months ago. He and Al want me to stay on with the club.”

“That’s awesome.” Except he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Isn’t it?”

Mike started idly pulling up the grass along the edge of the blanket. “Do you want me to stay?” He watched her as if her answer mattered to him. 

The idea of Mike sticking around definitely had appeal. Blip did a good job keeping the guys motivated and settling some of their squabbles, but Mike was the one they all turned to when they really needed help. Even Al turned to him, even more this season than last. 

“I want you to be happy. I think the team would be lucky to have you, but I’ll back your play. If you don’t want to stay, go sell cars for awhile, drive Route 66, do one of those cooking competition shows you like or a reality show, like ‘Real Retirees of the MLB’ or something. Whatever you want, Lawson.”

Mike’s forehead crinkled in puzzled little furrows even as he asked, “Real Retirees of the MLB? That’s not a thing, is it?”

“No, but Evelyn tried to pitch me a reality show about the WAGs one night. She had market research and a potential cast list all drawn up. Blip damn near had a stroke when he heard about it.” She shrugged. “Just got me thinking. Fans care what happened to their idols post retirement. Pick a couple of guys each time, you do a casual taped interview, show some old game footage and have a camera follow them around for a day or two.”

“That’s actually not the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Mike admitted. Bits of grass littered the blanket as he kept picking at the lawn. “But the title is crap.” 

She reached over and stilled his hand before he started ripping it up by the roots. “I’m just saying, you have options.” Plenty of options that would take him away from San Diego, away from the team. Who was she kidding? Away from her. “What did Oscar offer? Those legs would look killer in the San Diego Chicken costume.”

Mike laughed, but he didn’t answer immediately. He shook free of her grip and moved her hand to rest palm up on his thigh. In the fading light, he traced the lines on her palm, rubbed his fingertips over the pitching callouses on her fingers. Her hand tingled, her arm was covered in goosebumps, and little spikes of heat kept flaring between her legs as his fingers skimmed over hers. 

“I could be a scout, or a bullpen coach. Oscar wants some kind of player liaison or something. They’re making it hard to say no. Al and I have been talking a lot lately.”

“Skip’s not thinking about retiring too, is he? You’re not both allowed to leave us.” Her voice was shakier than she’d like, but keeping her breathing under control was taking more effort than it should. Mike Lawson touching her wasn’t exactly a novelty, but this felt strangely intimate. 

“No one’s leaving, Baker. Not yet anyway. Has he given you the ‘baseball’s only a small part of your life’ speech yet?” Mike’s wandering fingers skated up her wrist, tracing the fine veins there, the blunt edges of his nails teasing thin, sensitive skin. She shivered. No wonder the groupies worshipped him. The man’s hands were magic. 

Ginny dragged her mind away from his touch and back to their conversation. “Yeah. Last season. You know you both like to feed me and give speeches? He bought me gnocchi.”

Mike smiled. “I’m better looking, though. You’ve gotta give me that.”

Ginny squinted at him in the deepening twilight. “Hard to tell under the furball eating your face.” The stadium had gone quiet around them, the birds gone home to their nests, the distant drone of traffic nothing but white noise. Security lights in the stadium provided distant beacons to lead them out of here, but nearby the shadows hid them from prying eyes.  

Mike raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Ladies love the beard, Baker. You just haven’t fully experienced it.” 

“Keep dreaming, Lawson.” Teasing him was automatic now, but the full Mike Lawson experience would probably kill her. His hug still showed up in her dreams, and after tonight his hands were likely to feature heavily. 

Mike slid his fingers between hers and squeezed her hand for a moment before letting go. “I probably am,” he sighed. “I’m taking the front office job, Baker.”  

The one job that wouldn’t require a lot of travel. “Are you and Rachel getting back together?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. 

Mike actually snorted at that. “No. She’s dating some editor at the LA Times. That’s what she came to tell me. That I was right to leave. First time I was right in ten years,” he admitted, but he sounded relieved. 

Ginny didn’t know what to say about that. None of the guys had liked Rachel, and Mike with Rachel wasn’t much of a captain from their perspective. He hadn’t been much of a friend either.

“I owe you an apology, Ginny, and I don’t do this often, so don’t interrupt me.” She’d missed that gruff, impatient tone he got when he was annoyed or frustrated. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and you don’t have to. Just listen to me.”

Finally the real reason they were here. He’d distracted her with dinner, and the sunset, and playing with her hand, which Ginny couldn’t think about right now. 

Mike’s voice softened. “I wanted to kiss you that night. I still do. But I know I fucked up with you, more than once, and I don’t expect you to wait around for me, or even be interested. You’ve always been out of my league.”

“Out of my league? You can do better than that.” The instinct to tease him was automatic. To flirt with him, if she was being honest. The heaviness of the moment lifted.

Mike smiled, her eyes were adjusting enough to see that. “Here I thought I’d get points for a shorter speech.”

She shrugged, and made a decision. A stupid one, but she was tired of carrying around what if’s. Ginny couldn’t get back a middle school dance, or college, but she could do this. “We have an early flight.” 

Mike’s smile widened. “Yeah.”

There was a moment when she wasn’t sure if she should move or if he would, but they both did and he held her, their faces close, the warm bulk of him both familiar and arousing.  

Then Ginny kissed him. 

Mike’s lips were soft, and the beard didn’t feel nearly as strange as she expected. It was soft, a little ticklish against her skin, not unpleasant. It would feel insane against other parts of her body. But not right now. Now the kiss was slow and tender and still stealing her breath. His hand cupped the nape of her neck, his fingers in her hair, and when her lips parted his tongue found hers. 

Ginny’s phone buzzed in her pocket and Mike pulled back enough to growl, “Don’t you dare answer that.”

He tried to kiss her again, but Ginny pressed a hand against the hard wall of his chest. That would require further exploration later. Not here, in the middle of the ballpark where anyone could find them. “Mike.”

He sighed. “Teammates. Right.”

“Teammates,” she echoed, getting to her feet before she could convince herself that they could risk one more kiss. 

“I can wait,” Mike said firmly, like it was a foregone conclusion. 

Ginny must be crazy, because she believed him. “We win the Series. You retire. And then…”

He stood up, slower than she had, grimacing as his right knee popped loudly. “I fall apart,” Mike said with a bitter chuckle, and pulled her back into his arms. “And then I come straight to you.”

 


	10. When I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the formatting errors! I finished this and input it on my phone during a long layover in New York on my way to Italy.

Mike Lawson walked out of the dugout in the bottom of the 8th, two men on with two outs, and 40,000 fans started chanting his name. The Padres were down one run in Game 4 of the NLDS, with their season hanging in the balance.

No pressure.

Silence fell as he reached the plate.

Mike snuck a glance at the dugout. Ginny stood on the steps with Sonny and Livan, each with an arm around her. Her chin had come up once, the little nod he translated easily. _You’ve got this._

Blip stood ready on third, Ellis poised to run on second. Mike was too damn old to chase the first pitch, a curve that hadn’t fooled him in years. After the second pitch went wide outside, Mike got pissed. Were they were going to walk him and load the bases? Cristiello had played well lately but he wasn’t the threat Mike was. That wasn’t arrogance. It was a fact.

Call it instinct, call it experience, but Mike saw the fastball coming on the next pitch. He discreetly signalled the first base coach, and Blip and Ellis took off before he made contact. The ball sailed fair into a hole in right field and took a wild bounce to hit the wall and skitter away from the fielder chasing it.

Mike’s right knee protested as he rounded first, but he powered on and slid into second as Ellis crossed home plate. The crowd roared its approval.

And then Cristiello popped out, ending the inning and stranding Mike on second. But they were leading going into the ninth, and that was all Mike could ask for as he walked back to the dugout for his gear.

He didn’t notice it at first, the noise rising like an approaching freight train, a far-off rumble growing stronger by the moment. He looked up and saw himself on the big screen. And the crowd on its feet. A shiver had traveled down his spine.

No one would say a word, but they all knew. That may very well have been Mike’s last at-bat at Petco. Ginny wouldn’t even talk about it, but Mike had spoken often with Blip and with Al. Neither man wanted Mike to retire, but they understood why he might be ready to go. The luxury of walking out on two feet, not carried off the field on a stretcher, appealed to him.

Mike glanced over at the dugout. Ginny was watching him, her eyes shiny, barely hiding that proud little smile he craved. She knew it too. They were in a 1-2 hole in the series, needed to win tonight and Game 5 to move on, and he wasn’t sure there was enough gas left in the tank.

So Mike took off his helmet, raised a hand to the crowd, and hurried toward the dugout. If he lingered, if he did anything else, there would be talk. The guys would think he’d given up on them. He hadn’t. Still, he hurried back onto the field to put away three more Giants and live to play another day.

Game 5 was a long, nail-biting eleven-inning battle in which the wind blowing cold off the Pacific sent every long ball into the stands or the bay. Mike hit 4-5 with a two-run homer and 4 RBIs.

Blip climbed the outfield wall but had to watch Buster Posey’s game-winning homer sail just out of his reach. The roar of the crowd at AT&T Park was so loud they could probably hear it across the bay in Oakland.

And just like that, the season was over. Mike took a moment at home plate, pulled off his mask and basked in the glare of the lights, the roar of a victorious crowd, the smell of sweat and dust and freshly-cut grass. God damn he loved every minute of this game. This career. The pain, the frustration, even the defeat.

He’d been considering another season ever since they made the playoffs. They could do it, given another year. But his aching knees were only getting worse. Ice baths and cortisone shots and all the acupuncture in the world wouldn’t put more cartilage in his joints or repair the minute tears in his ligaments. It was only a matter of time.

So when Mike walked into the visitor’s clubhouse and saw Ginny fidgeting by his cubby, disappointment in her face as she talked to Blip, Mike did what he’d wanted to do after every game all season. He swept her up into his embrace, her feet coming up off the ground and her cap tumbling off, and just held on.  

“God damn it,” came from behind him. “Who had today?”

Mike set Ginny down, reluctantly, and turned toward Sonny, who looked not even remotely surprised.

“I did,” said Duarte with a smirk.

“What did you do?” Ginny asked, doing a terrific impression of a disappointed mama.  

“I won $900, _mami_ ,” he said proudly.

“You guys bet on us? Blip, you allowed this?” Ginny sounded pissed, but Mike understood this for what it was: the team supporting them. Any one of them could have said something to management or the league, or even outed them to the tabloids. Instead they bet amongst themselves to give even the newbies a reason to keep their teammates’ secret.

Blip tossed his hat and glove into his cubby. “Please. I bet you two wouldn't make it past the All-Star break without some tabloid catching you fawning all over each other.”

“Fawning? We do not,” Mike was annoyed as hell, though he wasn’t all that surprised that Blip had figured them out. He spent more time with them than anyone. But damn it, Mike wanted some credit for enduring 8 months of celibacy with no more than casual, teammate-friendly touches and his own right hand.

“Aside from all the cuddling on the bus?” Butch pointed out with a laugh.

“And the plane,” Javanes added.

“And finishing each other’s sentences,” Dusty put in.

Sonny shook his head. “Lawson, I’ve seen you two have an entire conversation without saying a single word. On the field it’s awesome. Off the field it's creepy as fuck.”

“Creepy?” Ginny huffed. “Not my fault we work well together.”

Sonny laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

Mike turned back to Ginny, who still stood in the circle of his arms. “Well, if everyone knows, then I don’t have to wait to do this.” And he kissed her.

Catcalls filled the clubhouse until they broke apart, and Al came in, his brow furrowed. “What are you all--” He stopped as he spotted Mike with his arms around Ginny. He sighed. “So I take it that was your last game?”

Mike nodded. After that, everything fell into place with remarkable ease.

Players and coaches, spouses, and even a small herd of kids, assembled at Mike’s house the next night to celebrate their first playoff run in 11 years. For once, the house didn’t feel huge and empty. They stayed up far too late, telling stories and drowning their disappointment in more liquor than was wise.

Ginny even got Mike to dance with her. He had no rhythm, he’d been telling her that for ages, but the novelty of being able to hold Ginny close without worrying who was watching made any embarrassment worth it. The peanut gallery insisted he had two left feet, and Duarte offered to show Mike how it was done. His leering smirk at Ginny said everything Livan wouldn’t say out loud: unlike most of their teammates, Livan didn’t assume Ginny and Mike had been sleeping together for months. Before Mike could say a word, Ginny cut in, in Spanish no less, and Duarte stalked off to lick his wounds.

By 2 a.m., the last round of drunken toasts were said, the kids long since packed up and sent home, and Mike ushered Blip and and a giggling Evelyn into their Uber.

Ginny was waiting at the foot of the stairs when he came back inside. She looked tired, a little disheveled, and utterly divine. The dress she’d arrived in was drip-drying in his bathroom after a game of tag with the little Padres ended with Ginny in the pool. She’d spent the rest of the evening wearing one of Mike’s old jerseys and a pair of his shorts.

“Ready for bed?” she asked.

Mike spared a brief glance at the discarded bottles and leftover party food scattered around the kitchen and living room, but all that could wait. “You tired?” he countered.

A slow smile crept across Ginny’s face, widening until her dimples popped. “Nope.” She turned and headed upstairs without watching to see if he followed.

As if Mike had a choice. He was tempted to ask her to keep the jersey on. It appealed to the narcissist in him, a remnant of a childhood in which no one put him first, not even his mother. At least, so said the counselor who hadn’t realized Rachel only hired him to tell Mike all the ways in which he was wrong.

But when he reached the doorway, he found shorts and jersey puddled on the floor, and Ginny lying on his bed wearing nothing but moonlight. Ginny Baker, in the flesh. He almost said it, wondered if she remembered their first meeting as well as he did.

“You gonna stand there all night?” she asked, her voice a little husky.

“No, you’re just…” Mike couldn’t find the words if he had all night. She’d actually left him speechless, which was damn near unprecedented. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Ginny naked before. Between the ESPN body issue and those leaked selfies, nothing Ginny was showing him was new.

Except she was here, in his bed, trembling slightly from nerves or cold or maybe both. “And you’re overdressed,” she pointed out, dragging a corner of white bedsheet up over her long legs.

Mike took his time unbuttoning his shirt, shucking it off, unzipping and discarding his jeans. He liked watching her this way, watching her breasts rise and fall with her quickened breathing, how the light made her skin seem to shimmer. One of her more memorable rants was after some guy in a bar started going on and on about how her skin looked like chocolate. Chocolate he wanted to eat, naturally. Mike would never say those words, he knows better, but right now Ginny did look downright edible. And he intended to lick and probably nibble every inch of her skin that he could tonight.

After eight months of dirty fantasies, and years of varied and frequent sexual adventures, Mike expected some initial awkwardness when he slipped into bed with Ginny Baker. It couldn’t possibly be as good as he’d built it up in his head. They could ease into it, kiss and explore each other half the night if she wanted to. God knew he wouldn’t last long the first time they actually fucked.

Ginny reached for him, her strong, warm hands slipped across his chest, up along his shoulders, a small, secret smile on her lips and her eyes darkly intent on him. That look was enough to snap what little control he had. Mike kissed her, hard and hungry, and any plans to take this slow flew out the window.

Ginny was just as competitive in bed as she was on the field. Mike found a place just under her right breast that made her pant when he set his teeth against her skin. She drove him crazy running her blunt nails up and down his lower back. Every move he made, she matched and found some way to up the ante.

Finally Mike tossed her back on the bed like she weighed nothing, and pinned her hips to the mattress while he licked her until she shuddered and screamed. And then she laughed, and he laughed too, and he kissed her laughing mouth until she whispered, “No more stalling, Lawson.”

They came together three times during the night, dozing and talking and touching in between rounds. Sex with Ginny was every bit as hot and athletic as he'd expected, but it was fun too. And she trusted him in a way he hadn't experienced in a long time. Around sunrise he slipped downstairs long enough to make coffee and cinnamon rolls, then let both cool untouched when Ginny pulled him back into bed.

Much later, after breakfast and a long, steamy shower, they stopped at Ginny’s condo for a change of clothes and headed to the ballpark.

And so, on a crisp Saturday afternoon in October, Mike stood in the press room, his teammates around him.

Sonny and Duarte were at the mic telling a story about the team bus breaking down in Cincinnati in May, but Mike was barely listening.

He hid a yawn behind his hand, grateful that there were only two players left to speak with the press before his turn. He flipped through his notecards again. He’d numbered the damn things after Ginny scattered them across the bed, teasing, “Since when do you need notes to give a speech?”

The assembled reporters suspected what Mike would say when his turn came. The papers, the sports shows, the blogs -- they all thought Mike Lawson would announce his retirement today. Even Rachel had chimed in with a quick good-luck Tweet.

Livan finished up with a burst of rapid-fire Spanish that Mike only partially understood, but a glance at Oscar showed the man’s calm undisturbed, so whatever Duarte said couldn’t have been terrible.

Blip was next to take the mic. Ginny slid in beside Mike, quickly squeezing and releasing his hand. “Relax, Mike,” she whispered, her eyes on Blip, who was already speaking.

Something about the way she said his name was as soothing as her touch. So far he liked every way she said his name--all his names, even when she'd teasingly called him captain once last night.

Mike squeezed the cards in his hand, looking down at the opening lines one last time. Now that the moment was upon him, he was actually nervous.

Blip handled the press like a pro, acknowledging the team’s mistakes without throwing any one player under the bus. The analysts were already starting the refrain of “maybe next year,” and Blip repeated what he'd said last night, this time with less slurring. There was no maybe about it.

Mike hoped he was right, and slapped his friend’s back as Blip passed him.

Mike started to move toward the mic, and Ginny pressed a hand to his arm. “Not so fast,” she murmured, and took a seat in front of the mic.

Several reporters started asking questions, and she pointed at one of her favorites, a guy who never asked personal questions. “Ginny, are you disappointed with this season?”

Ginny made a face and huffed in irritation. “Of course not! I’ve been saying since last season that I thought this team had it in them--”

“Us, Baker, not them,” Blip corrected loudly enough for the mic to catch it.

Mike didn’t have to look to know she was rolling her eyes. “Right, us. Anyway, I’ve been saying since I got here that this team could go all the way. After the way my season started last year, and how it ended, I wasn’t sure I’d get to be part of that. So I have to thank my teammates, the club, and the fans for supporting me and giving me the chance to play for the Padres this year. Would I like to playing in the NLCS? Sure, but that doesn't erase what we accomplished.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, and the affection in her eyes hit him like a fastball to the chest. “And I have to thank one more person, even though it’ll go right to his already swelled head. Our captain, Mike Lawson.”

“Can you elaborate on that, Ginny?” another reporter asked.

She nodded. “Some of you might remember my first game.” Her teammates groaned. “And my second didn’t start off much better. But this guy came up to the mound, and he got my head on straight. And after I got hurt, he came to the hospital and did it again. I honestly don’t know if I’d be here today without him.” Her voice wavered, and she looked back at him again.

They’d agreed not to go public yet, that they needed time to themselves without the pressure of the paparazzi and the tabloid press. But it was killing Mike not to go to her.

She waved off further questions, and then it was Mike’s turn.

Mike let himself brush against her just a moment too long as they passed behind the table, and then all eyes were on him. The statement in his hand seemed all wrong now. He tucked his notes into his back pocket.

“I'll take a few questions but first I have a statement.” The room fell silent. “There have been a lot of rumors the past few weeks. I was born and raised in San Diego County. I’ve played here seventeen years, and this city has embraced me like family. I am not going to another team. I did not hit on Nick Swisher’s wife at a party, and I have no idea where that rumor came from.”

He took a deep breath. “But I have played my last game in the Major Leagues.”

Predictably the room erupted in questions. Above the din Mike heard, “Why now, Mike?”

“My knees. And my back. I was on the DL twice this season.” There was more to it, but the public didn't need to know he’d panicked both times, thinking this time he was done.

“Will you stay in San Diego?” That question came from the U-T beat writer.

“San Diego is my home. I've been in talks with our GM about how to stay involved with the team and you'll hear more about that when we nail down the details.” He glanced over where Blip, Ginny, Sonny, and Livan waited. “My life is here.”

Mike answered more questions, but he felt lighter having made his decision public. And when he walked out of the press room, Ginny was waiting for him.

It didn't feel like an ending. 


End file.
